Yellow Rose
by PeekabooFang
Summary: A prequel, retelling of, and sequel to the stage show, eventually centering around a particular little ballet dancer.
1. Chapter 1

_She is not beautiful, but she is striking_, Girard thought as he watched Anahid dance.

A haze of uncertainty and anticipation clung about the year 1863 in the great palace of Naser al-Din Shah Qajar. The 32-  
year-old shah was entering his fifteenth year of rule, and his reformist ideals coupled with his brutal punishment of  
perceived traitors unnerved his populous. Globally, Great Britain had seven years before waged war on him for  
reclaiming land in Afghanistan, which was too close to British-occupied India for the empire's comfort. Such unfettered  
initiative in a leader then so young disturbed even the officially neutral French empire.

The young Persian king felt an instant kinship with this Frenchman Julien Girard. Scarcely five years younger than Naser,  
Julien was the youngest ambassador to Persia in his country's history, and his youthful inexperience contrasted with his  
canny ability appealed to Naser. Although Julien was almost three months into his stay, this was the first time Naser  
was able to persuade him to join the shah for a night's formal entertainment.

Julien Girard was a svelte young man whose bearing bespoke his formal education and rigid upbringing. His  
handsome face held both a look of boyish youth and dignified agelessness. Fair-haired with blue-gray eyes, he had a  
candid way of assessing a room that made people look at him initially with approval—but when they studied him more  
closely, they were vaguely put off by the unsettled dance of his eyes that were constantly skimming over people and  
objects, always in motion, always as if looking for something better, more satisfying, more true.

These eyes were now focused on Anahid, watching her dance.

_She is not beautiful. Handsome, perhaps, in an unconventional way. But she is not beautiful._ His gaze never left her  
whirling form.

He stood in what he could only describe as a ballroom. It was a vast open space with gilded pillars. The evening breeze  
floated in through lilac veils, incense lacing the air. A bendir drum and chang harp accompanied Anahid's dance. She  
moved with pinpoint precision on the king's elegant rug in the center of the great room.

Julien's mission was primarily one of maintenance. Beyond the usual negotiations for trade, the instructions he'd  
received indirectly from Napoleon III were to express the emperor's sympathies to the shah in regards to Persia's plans  
for expansion—while expressing with utmost tact that France absolutely would not budge in their own territories should  
Naser's ambition expand even further. So far, Julien knew not what to make of the young shah. He was a strange  
contrast of the old and the new. He held reformist leanings and was a well-read young man. He was particularly  
fascinated with Europe, constantly asking Julien about the latest technology, literature, and art in Julien's home country.  
He often expressed his hope to visit there, which would make him the first modern Persian monarch to do so.

Yet in a second those intelligent and overeager eyes could flash with malicious haughtiness as he ordered the death of  
a dissenting Bábí. In short, he spoke with liberal fervor but acted with brutality —something that reminded Julien dolefully  
of the French court.

Despite his youth, Julien was a favorite of Napoleon's. He had spent most of his early education in the streets, handing  
out pamphlets, crying for reform, gathering others to his cause, singing the praises of the brave and steadfast third  
Napoleon. Yet an uneasy jadedness entered the once revolutionary heart of the young Girard. The fervor that expelled  
him from his own noble home, leaving him disowned, had caused France's new emperor to embrace him. It was this  
same emperor that helped quell that fervor almost completely when nothing in society seemed to change for the better  
—never for the better.

He couldn't help the cynical burst of bitterness in his breast when he recalled that his family only agreed to reconciliation  
when Napoleon became more and more conservative, and when they heard the news of Julien's ascension to his lofty  
position of ambassador.

It was true that recently Napoleon showed signs of leniency, relaxing his more conservative measures and even inviting  
back exiled citizens into the country. But Julien scoffed at the idea this came from a crisis of conscience; more likely a  
crisis of advisers and a rebellious populous that quailed at the thought of war in Prussia and needed some sort of  
positive reinforcement.

Julien struggled with his borderline treacherous feelings toward Napoleon and his innate desire to execute his job well.  
Yet on this evening such thoughts were far from the young man's mind. Tonight, he watched Anahid dance.  
He was trying violently to dismiss her from his mind when her black eyes met his for an instant as she turned—and his  
throat went dry, his chest clenching painfully.

Quiet figures clothed in black, indistinct, walked slowly around the circumference of the room, they too watching Anahid.  
Girard noticed that these indistinct figures followed Anahid wherever she went, her own shadowy ghosts.  
No one else ever deigned to notice them, ignoring them as though they were invisible specters that only Julien was privy  
to.

She twirled, the gold coins on her bodice and skirt jangling together. Their sound melded charmingly with the harp.

Anahid Najami was exactly Julien's age and looked older. She carried her tall form with majestic grace, her fierce black  
eyes staring luminously out from a strong-featured face with prominent bone structure. All her features were long: her  
straight nose, her full lips, those black eyes. The chestnut strands in her raven hair turned to fire in the candlelight. Her  
hands, feet, and limbs were also long; her tawny arms wrapped around her revolving frame like scarves caught in a  
spinning wheel. Her grave face, too, was long, and though it held no beauty the way Girard understood it, he could not  
tear his eyes away. His heart beat more insistingly than the bendir.

She was the shah's favorite dancer, despite the fact there were younger and more conventionally beautiful girls that  
begged for the king's eye. She was another example of Naser's unique liberality. She was considered an independent  
woman, someone who had studied abroad and mastered several languages and dialects, and could hold her own in  
political conversation. Plus, no one possessed the versatility and talent Anahid did when it came to dance. She was an  
expert in classical court dances along with the Kereshmeh, Bandari, and she was even proficient in Western dances  
such as ballroom and ballet (both Western and Eastern versions). Naser sat now on a cushion with shining eyes staring  
in light satisfaction as Anahid gave him a soft smile full of mystery as she gyrated, a smile that instantly made Julien's  
cheeks turn to flames and an unexpected hatred for Naser fill his breast.

Her mother had been a Turkish refugee with Persian and Mesopotamian blood, he learned. Her father had served as the  
chief of police, or daroga, under the reign of Naser's father. Anahid's unconventional education and upbringing put her in  
an invaluable position as go-between for Julien and the shah. Naser assigned her as Julien's unofficial envoy. She  
made the usually solemn Julien laugh out loud the first time they met at a more informal gathering than the present one,  
when she mimicked perfectly the dialect and slang of a typical Parisian grocer.

He hated that he could never look away.

He would watch as her eyes, glittering, would sometimes leave the faces of those she conversed with at court, and swim  
to those indistinct figures dressed in black—Julien at last learned they were part of Persia's secret police force, never  
speaking, never truly seen by the petted gentry in the palace.

After her father died she'd lost all her contacts within the police, she told him. He resented she took him for such a fool.  
He let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding when Anahid with a swift bow ended her dance and the music  
stopped. He didn't know he'd still been staring transfixed until he started when the shah's hand shot out and clutched his  
arm.

Julien swallowed a grimace when he noticed that the shah's eyes—which could be so thoughtful, contemplative—held  
instead the look of brutality. Naser grinned. "Wait, my dear friend, until you see what I have next!"

With an excited wave of the hand, he signaled to Anahid. For the first time Julien noticed a suppressed look of irritation  
cross her face. Still, she bowed stiffly again and exited the hall.

The shah leaned back on his cushion. "You'll see," he said to Julien.

Anahid re-entered, leading a figure behind her.

The figure was that of a tall and slender young man. He was dressed all in black, save for a white silk mask that covered  
vertically one half of his face. Julien leaned forward a bit, narrowing his eyes as he gazed at the exposed side. It was  
eerily pale, almost as pale as the mask. The half of the lips Julien could see were grotesquely swollen, almost  
inhumanly so, and seemed permanently formed into a lewd, sensual sneer. He possessed very little hair, yet he was  
quite young, Julien thought; fifteen at the oldest.

Anahid pronounced one word: "Erik". Another bow, and then Anahid slipped silently away. That was another skill of hers:  
despite her powerful presence and striking looks, Anahid could become so quiet, so still, she would make you forget  
she was there, turn as invisible as the black figures circling and circling...

Erik stepped forward to the king. "Great shah," said the most hypnotically beautiful tenor Julien ever heard from a man.  
With the grace of a trained dancer, Erik dipped into a low bow and then presented, seemingly out of nowhere, a Punjab  
lasso.

Naser laughed heartily, eyes sparkling.

Julien looked for Anahid. She was not smiling with the rest of the court.

For the next fifteen minutes Erik amused the assembly with various awe-inspiring tricks. First the lasso was very large,  
then it was small; then it was completely knotted, then it was straight; then it whipped out like a cobra and coiled itself  
around the shoulders of a shrieking and giggling concubine.

In spite of himself, Julien was enthralled by the graceful sleight of hand the boy possessed.

He felt the shah bat at his arm again. He pointed enthusiastically to the mysterious boy. "Look, look!"

From the same unknown place he stored the lasso Erik now produced an ornate hand mirror. "A good shah always  
knows what's on his subject's mind, my liege," Erik said. "Let us study the faces of those assembled, shall we?" He  
started singing an ethereal song in a Persian dialect so ancient Julien could not recognize it. He sang in such a pure  
voice it unwillingly brought tears to the Frenchman's eyes (he later learned this was an original composition of Erik's,  
'The Ballad of Mirrors'). With long slender fingers, Erik unhooked something in the mirror so that it dangled on its hinge,  
then with his gloved hand he set it spinning.

First the fat laughing face of one of the advisers suddenly appeared. He was sitting at the opposite end of the spacious  
room. Julien froze. Such a trick was unearthly, surely...then, a lovely concubine, disappearing embarrassed into her fan.  
Then three more, then four more surprised and delighted subjects appeared in the looking glass. Then Julien's own  
taciturn face, that turned beet red and earned a good ribbing from his royal host.

Finally the mirror reflected Anahid's face- a face full of the saddest resignation in the world.

The sight of her seemed to shame both the shah and Erik, for the king signaled to Erik that it was time for the finale.  
Sustaining the highest note Julien had yet heard from a human voice, Erik spun the mirror twice more. The first spin  
reflected Erik's own face with its mask, then-

Terrified screams and gasps filled the hall.

Julien staggered.

The countenance in the mirror made him think for a quick moment that the spinning glass opened the gates of hell.

A demon stared out.

The half of Erik's face the mask hid was now revealed. Dark red caverns twisted the chalk-white face, the distorted  
swollen lips like those of some deep-sea creature. Above them one nostril looked almost melted, spread above his  
philtrum. Patches of his skin were corpse-white, others like yellowed parchment. And always the dark red caverns, that  
large star-shaped indent on the side of his skull, exposing what looked like brain tissue but was simply more  
discolored, distorted skin. His good eye was dark brown and beautiful; his other was a blue so pale it was almost white,  
the pupil an angry pinprick.

Julien didn't think something so hideous, so deformed, could live and breathe in real life.

Yet he didn't miss the deep sorrow in the mismatched eyes, the bitter intakes of breath that stuttered out at those  
assembled from that devil's mirror.

Still under the censuring influence of Anahid's gaze, Naser did not take as much satisfaction as he'd hoped from the  
performance. He still put on a good show, forcing a laugh and clapping markedly. "Good, good!" Suddenly determined to  
prove his reformist and humanitarian credentials, he stood and slapped an amiable hand on Erik's shoulder. "I saved  
this man from a degraded life in a sideshow outside your native France, monsieur. Now he is invaluable to me, not only  
as an entertainer, but as an architect and an adviser." Julien noticed that this kindly shah dared not look his hideous  
adviser in the face. "Wise beyond his years." Another pat, and the shah returned to his seat. "Thank you, Erik. Anahid, be  
so kind as to show him out, please."

Possessing the same sad grace from before, Anahid with almost motherly care led Erik out by his arm. Even she could  
not stare directly into his face.

Julien noticed the black figures were gone.

* * *

Sleep did not come easily to Julien that night. After nearly three months he still had not fully acclimated to the scorching  
dry heat or the rich food at court, and that combined with the perturbing images from the shah's soiree kept him jittery  
through half the night. When at last a light sleep fell on him, he dreamed of shadowy figures singing in ethereal unison,  
a whirling mirror reflecting faces that looked like a grotesque cross between Napoleon and Naser's, Erik's deformed  
countenance with Julien's own eyes, and Anahid, Anahid, Anahid.

His eyes flew open with the preternatural sense something just happened. He sat upright, listening to the salty hot  
breeze that flowed through the gold-embroidered curtains. Perhaps it was just the sound of his own panting breath, but  
he felt sure that he heard the quick whisper of footsteps below his window.

All at once they stopped, and he heard hushed voices. One was a woman's. He put his back to the wall by the window  
and peeked through the gauzy curtain.

He could not see clearly through the darkness, but he had her form and gestures memorized so well by now that there  
was no doubt. The figure beside her was tall and slim, and clutching his shoulder as if injured. Anahid shushed her  
companion when he suddenly let out a sharp laugh, like a drunken madman. They disappeared into the shadows,  
hurrying away.

Julien pulled on his clothes quickly. Working purely on instinct, he lit his lantern and stepped out into the hall, slipping  
past the guards' notice.

He touched his fingers to the cold pavement below his window, feeling the damp red spots he found there. Blood. He  
was comforted remembering it was Anahid's companion that appeared wounded, not she.

He extended his arm holding the lantern so he could see farther down the walkway and noticed that the droplets of blood  
traced a trail around the corner of the palace wall.

He did not question his motives. He followed the crimson path.

The lantern burned mellow in the deep black night. He turned at every rustling sound, only to register it as the warm  
breeze stirring the Cyprus leaves bordering the palace walkway.

All of a sudden the trail ended, in the middle of the walkway by the palace's East wing. Julien turned to the right, studying  
the grass by the pavement. No sign of blood there, or footprints.

He was mystified. Then something about the square of pavement the blood ended on caught his eye. He bent down,  
putting the lantern on the ground to better see.

The blood seemed to trickle down into the cracks. Julien hesitantly lifted a hand and knocked lightly on the surface. Then  
he stood up swiftly. Hollow. The panel was hollow.

Crouching again, he ran his fingers down the groove of the panel. He stopped once his fingers caught on something that  
felt almost like a button.

Swallowing drily, he pushed.

With a soft whooshing sound the panel rose, allowing Julien to slip his fingers further down the grooves and lift it. A  
trapdoor.

Luckily there was no creaking to be heard: the work of a master. Dimming his lantern, Julien peered down to see the top  
of two heads below, sitting at a table in a small cell.

He recognized the part in Anahid's hair and the scant traces of Erik's.

Julien cupped his ears to hear what their quiet voices were saying.

"Stop that ghoulish laughter," Anahid said in a low voice. "You could have been killed."

A dark snicker. "Yes, I do believe that was the assassin's goal, my dear." Julien heard Erik hiss, taking in a breath. "I  
know you're angry, Anahid, but must you take out your frustration while sewing me up?"

So that was what Anahid was looking at so intently, her head bowed. She was sewing up the wound in his shoulder. She  
muttered something that was either an apology or another scolding. Either way Erik simply snickered again.

"You should have let me kill him," Erik said in an easy voice, as if it were simply something that came to mind.

"That shows how young you are," she answered drily. "Knocking him out like I did will only anger him. Killing him would  
incense his fellow assassins in the force. I think we'll have enough trouble from their end as it is."  
"How did you know they were after me?"

"I knew it was coming. I knew for certain it was tonight when they disappeared after your performance."  
There was a long silence.

At last Erik spoke. "They'll know you saved me," he said quietly.

"I suppose they will," she said in a voice so soft Julien almost didn't hear it.

In a sad sing-song voice Erik asked, "And what are we to do about it, hmm?"

"May I be of assistance?" It took Julien a moment to realize it was his voice that spoke. He stared down with a  
surprisingly composed face at the upturned ones of the two below. For perhaps the first time in both their lives, Anahid  
and Erik were taken aback, momentarily speechless.

Then Erik opened his mouth wide—from what Julien could see of it behind his mask—and emitted such a loud barking  
laugh that it resembled a wild hyena's more than a man's.

Anahid ferociously pressed her hand to his mouth, hissing, "Shh! Shh!"  
With graceful dexterity, Julien swung himself inside and closed the trapdoor behind him before any chance wanderers  
outside could hear that hysterical fiendish laugh. He climbed nimbly down the ladder into the cell.

He stood before them.

"Well?" He asked.  
Anahid recovered herself and raised an arch brow. "Well?" She answered back. "What do you want, monsieur?"

"To spy on us," Erik nearly giggled. "To report us to the shah!" He burst into another inhuman laugh.  
Anahid's fathomless black eyes met Julien's.

_Blue-gray and remote like a winter pool's_, she thought.

"No, I don't think he shall," she said with the realization of certainty.

"No, I shan't," Julien said in a tone of inarguable finality. He fished into his pocket for a cigar. He lit it and leaned back  
against the wall. "Still, I wouldn't mind an explanation."

Anahid closed her eyes and sat silently for several minutes, apparently battling an internal war. Beside her Erik finished  
dressing his wound—a knife wound, Julien assessed from what he could see of it—as the deformed boy whistled a  
nonchalant tune.

At last Anahid opened her glorious eyes again.

_She is like a statue of a fallen goddess, kneeling in the wreckage of war._

He blinked the thought away.

"Very well, monsieur," she said with a half smile. "I will tell you all."

Her father and refugee mother trained her in the art of subterfuge, of intrigue. When they died, she was recruited by the  
shah's family to work for the secret police, transmitting messages from her contacts either through her dancing—a quirk  
of her hand to the left could mean death, to the right that the papers were in the study- or through any means she had up  
her sleeve. It was work that took her often out of the country, completing her education.

One such trip about three years ago took her to the outskirts of France near Lausanne. She was masquerading then as  
a French laundress, and decided to blend in with a crowd gathered for a large traveling fair that had come to the city.  
Tumblers, conjurors, human oddities, and the like. She walked unimpressed among the villagers until she came upon a  
much advertised event: "The Demon Genius."

At her pronunciation of the title, Erik's whistling faltered, his finger freezing at the needle. With a shiver, he continued as  
she picked up her narrative again.

A man, locked in a cage—but no, a boy. A mere boy. It was hard to tell because he was so tall—and because of the  
distorted face- but he was a boy, nonetheless.

Others screamed at his face. Some jeered and threw bottles. Anahid only stared with tears frozen in her eyes as the  
circus master extolled Erik's genius locked away behind the facial deformities. As she watched, the boy began to sing. It  
was the voice of an angel, a pure angel...trapped in a cage, with scars on his back...

It didn't take much effort to convince the young shah to contrive an escape for Erik. Anahid knew he needed a new  
architect. When she described his skill and his face, spies were sent at once to free the boy, with Anahid standing guard.  
"I...pictured a different sort of life for him. A life where he could exercise his skills in the arts, in architecture." She  
motioned to the cell they were sitting in, the trapdoor above. "All this he designed, and all built within the space of but  
three years. He was not even thirteen when I found him. I pictured-"

Julien jumped as he heard Anahid's voice right behind him, saying into his ear, "I pictured everyone living happily ever  
after with myself crowned as empress. Hee hee!"

A bemused look crossed her face. "He has also mastered throwing his voice. An unconventional form of ventriloquism."

Before Julien could answer, Erik spoke for him with Julien's own voice seemingly coming out of the Frenchman:  
"Intriguing, mademoiselle!"

Anahid shook her head wearily and continued. "Since then...well, I won't go into detail. But the shah wants him dead. And  
I no longer wish to lead a life such as this, it has no charm anymore, believe me. What's done is done. I suppose we  
shall both face our judgment tomorrow for evading the assassin."

"She says so casually," Erik sneered. "Knowing full well it will lead to both our deaths to present ourselves. That's what  
she's led me to: nothing but death."

She regarded him sharply. "Yes, and you'll take it like a man."

At this juncture Anahid stood. She approached Julien and spoke to him in a low voice. "May I speak to you outside?"

She turned to Erik. "Lie down. You need rest." She indicated a small cot Julien hadn't noticed before.

Julien could just barely make out Erik's mismatched eyes as they studied him. Erik at last nodded his assent. He  
carefully watched the two ascend the ladder.

* * *

They found a remote trail through an enclave of Cypress trees, Persian yellow roses lining their path, glowing eerily in  
the dark night.

Anahid stared into the sky, rubbing her arms. "I didn't want to describe what he's become in front of him, talking of him  
like he wasn't there."

Julien waited a moment before speaking. "And what has he become?"

She pinned him down suddenly with eyes full of frightened fire. "If nothing is done soon, he will become a monster."

There was nothing to say in reply.

She turned her face away, walking briskly now. "When Erik first entered his court, Naser treated him well, recognizing his  
genius, letting him work honestly. But then..." she drew in a deep breath. "The shah is not completely to blame. He took  
the throne too young, and is still easily led. The little sultana, who is now too sick to move, along with some old  
miscreants who still crowd the court are mostly at fault. Once it was discovered what lurked beneath the mask, they  
pressed the shah, demanded that his 'freak' be trotted out for their amusement." She shook her head. "Naser resisted  
for a while, but I saw their enthusiasm take hold of him as well."

"Don't think that's unique to the Persian court," Julien said bitterly. "I can easily see my fellow noble Frenchmen indulging  
in such exploitive behavior as well, including my fine emperor. It was a French sideshow you rescued him from, after all."  
"Yes, perhaps it was to be expected. But it seemed to...break something in Erik, who thought he'd escaped that sort of  
degradation. It poisoned his soul. Soon he was volunteering his services for more...lurid purposes."

She shivered then, her eyes to the ground. "I first learned what his genius had turned to when the maze of mirrors was  
completed."

"Maze of mirrors?"

She shut her eyes. "I remember that day...the shah eagerly gathered us into the vault below the palace, below the cells  
you just saw. He led us into a narrow room with a long window in front of us. The window looked down into a pit,  
surrounded by multiple mirrors. In...in the pit were three men, dissenting Bábí." She licked her lips, her eyes frozen in the  
fear of recollection. "Erik...Erik pulled a lever." She all at once threw her hands over her face. "It was terrible, terrib le!  
Believe me, monsieur, I am no shrinking violet who faints at the first sign of danger! I've earned my iron will and can  
withstand much, but this! The mirrors, they...they started spinning, it seemed..."

"Like tonight's demonstration," Julien murmured.

She nodded numbly. "Yes. Only instead of reflecting people, the glass reflected a desert scene, filled with tigers that  
would pounce on the dissenters, or snakes ready to strike. That was harmless, really, but then—the window—I felt it and  
my hands almost burned—he-he was suffocating them. He created a desert for them to die in, showing them images of  
water they could never drink. As long as I live I will forever hear their screams!" She let out a staggering breath. "Finally,  
finally the dissenters confessed whatever crimes the shah wanted them convicted for. They were released and granted  
a quick death."

Julien felt a chill that had nothing to do with the warm breeze.

She suddenly grabbed his arm and they were but a breath apart. Her eyes were wild and beseeching. "Yes, Naser  
turned him into an assassin. But please, please—don't think of him as beyond redemption! You see...I've seen him.  
Seen him nurse an ailing songbird back to life, take it to his bosom like a babe and give it life again. Seen him lie and  
help children escape who were under scrutiny for treason. I think he can still be saved. The shah has decided he's  
become too reckless—you saw his behavior just now, heard his laugh—and that he knows too much. He's amused by  
him, but he wants him gone, dead. Tonight was a grand finale to honor Erik—before sicking assassins on him."

"What of the boy's family?"

She shrugged, sighing. "He has none that will claim him. He ran away from home while still a child, which is how he  
was captured for the sideshow. He's implied he comes from a noble family, but not one that acknowledges a face such  
as his." Julien never before saw such tender appeal in her face. "Please, sir, try to show some compassion to one who's  
lived a life without any."

Julien found it difficult to answer when she was so close, when her loose dark mane was almost touching his cheek.

"And you?"

Her smile was infinitely sad and beautiful. "I meant what I said. I'll face whatever I have to. But monsieur...you are a kind  
man, I've seen it. I saw your sorrow as you gazed at his face tonight. Surely...surely if I present myself to the shah as a  
traitor, that would be distraction enough for you to spirit Erik away, to-"

She froze as he clutched both her arms. She stared at this face, more handsome than any she'd ever seen, his keen  
eyes stormy and sincere. "I will save him. I will take him wherever you will. But I will not abandon you. You come or I do  
nothing." Again, there was no room for argument in his tone, none.

Her voice was low. "You do realize that such an act will certainly make you not only an enemy of Persia but of your own  
country as well."

She could not understand the strange smile that flickered across his features. _The grotesque face that was b oth Naser's_  
_and Napoleon's, _he thought._ Yes. Leave it. Leave it all behind._

He gazed at her passionately. "In exile...for you?" He pressed her lips to his, kissing her madly. He pulled away to gaze at  
her, running a gentle, revering hand over her waves of hair. "Gladly."

A slow, mischievous smile formed on Anahid's grave face as well. "No," she whispered. "Not for me. With me."

And she pulled him to her again, and they kissed once more, shaded by the Cypress trees.

* * *

**A/N: Welcome to my headcanon backstory/sequel to the events of the stage show! This is strictly ALW musicalbased**  
**(not movie based, though I may borrow some details here and there). I'll use Leroux to fill in certain blanks,**  
**but character interpretations and plot points are all ALW-centered, filtered through my crazy brain. I haven't read**  
**Susan Kay's Phantom (I know, I suck), but I kinda feel like I have since I've read so much great meta about it and,**  
**well, I've shamelessly wikipedia'd it. So that might be unconsciously where I got the idea of assassins driving Erik**  
**out of Persia.**

**I am not at all what you'd call a history buff, but I am trying here. Even though I'm including real figures like Naser and**  
**Napoleon, this is basically a historical au, where the Opera House is not the Palais Garnier of history but the Opera**  
**Populaire of the ALW universe. I'm still going to mention real historical things here and there, but please be kind if I**  
**muck anything up. If it's a huge glaring error, call me out on it, but otherwise you might well go mad trying to correct**  
**every little..."liberty" (i.e. big fat mistake) I make. Just as long as it doesn't take you out of the story, let sleeping**  
**opera ghosts lie!**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy!**

**Oh, and of course: I own nothing, nothing I tell you! ALW/Gaston Leroux/Fancy People Who Aren't Me own the rights.**


	2. Chapter 2

_Paris, 1867_

Gabriel Reyer shuffled through the stack of papers on his desk, trying to organize who was coming when for which interviews. Ever since the opera house started remodeling two years prior, the place had become a hectic blur of new staff members and promotions and the occasional messy dismissal.

Reyer's blood was particularly up because how efficiently he could prove himself now would surely lean him toward promotion instead of the other. He'd started out as a clerk before the opera house was redesigned, and now he was the secretary to the new manager, a pleasant but distant and troubled man named Lefevre. If he particularly pleased Lefevre, perhaps Reyer could finally be allowed near the stage, maybe as an assistant director, and then possibly finally as an actual stage direct—

"Blast!" He cried out as the papers spilled from his grasp onto the floor beside the desk.

"It would appear M. Lefevre's secretary is in need of a secretary," a cool voice spoke from the doorway.

He looked up. A woman was standing there. She gave one the impression that you should straighten your posture immediately and never look her in the eye. She seemed taller than she actually was due to her proud stance and bearing. Black was her main theme—black dress, black hat with veil, black stole, black gloves, black hair pulled severely back. She was pale but didn't seem naturally so, so that her complexion held an odd sallow glow. Her angular face could have been that of anyone from age thirty to fifty. Had her large dark eyes held any sort of softness in them, she could have been called handsome for all her stark features.

Overall she was an impressive figure, inspiring a nervous awe. Reyer's disposition, however, was to always tend toward prickly irritation, ignoring impressive figures altogether. "Do you want something, Madame," he practically spat out, rankled by her comment and the stress of his current occupation scooping scattered papers off the floor.

She removed her gloves, bemused smirk still on her face. "I have an appointment for the position of Ballet Mistress here. My name is Antoinette Giry."

Flustered and red, he returned to his papers, rifling through them. "I do believe you're early," he responded with tentative annoyance creeping into his voice when he couldn't find hers among the many appointment slips.

All at once Lefevre was there, more animated than Reyer had ever seen him, leaving his office and extending his hands toward Madame Giry. "Not at all, not at all! Madame Giry, yes?" Though his smile was wide and his manners ingratiating, both Giry and Reyer noticed the look of a frozen deer in his eyes.

Even the composed figure of Madame Giry seemed vaguely perplexed as he hurried forward, giving her hands a vigorous shake. "We have been expecting you, dear lady! You arrived from Brussels all right? Excellent, excellent. We have heard _so _much about you." He led her into his office, leaving his pestered secretary behind.

"Who do you mean by _we?" _Antoinette questioned once Lefevre shut the door.

He didn't respond, simply repeated what positive reports he'd heard of her, running his hands through his bushy hair. He seemed distracted, Giry noticed. He would not keep still, was asking if she wanted a drink, was opening and shutting the drawers in his desk, never truly looking at her. She ran her eyes over him. He was in his forties, or close to it. Pointed goatee, profusion of sandy hair that was beginning to gray.

There was a hollowed look in those eyes the few times she was able to look in them, dark circles underneath. This was how she knew the man was troubled. Deeply troubled.

She shifted annoyed in her seat. She was in no mood for nonsense.

"Might I inquire as to why your current dance mistress was dismissed? I'd read she'd been with the theater for twenty years."

He paused for a moment. Then he busied himself wiping some dust off his desk. "She was deemed unacceptable." Before she could pursue that line, he quickly blurted out, "Oh, you know how it is when a place is remodeled! Not only the structure, but the staff! The poor dear lady was simply too old and set in her ways. What we need," he said, at last taking a seat on the corner of his desk, fingers strumming agitatedly in his lap, "What we need is a fresh perspective for our choreography. Fresh blood as it were. Your resume speaks for itself, Madame!"

Instead of a resume, he pulled out a newspaper clipping from one of her performances. "A glowing review of you in a performance of _Giselle _in Frankfurt! Another but five months later in a theater in Milan! A few positions teaching poor children in Belgium and Switzerland before that, which is very nice…but surprising to picture such an elegant lady in such a rustic setting!"

"We do what we can only to survive," she said unromantically.

He cleared his throat. "And all this in just the space of but two or so years! You went from humble teacher to renowned artist in the blink of an eye! Remarkable, Madame. Just the sort of perseverance and talent we need here in the opera house. We can afford you living arrangements here that are most accommodating, especially with your little daughter in tow. Perhaps we may see her one day in our ballet chorus, eh?" His chuckle was too forceful, too rehearsed.

She raised an eyebrow. "Does that mean you are definitely offering me the position?"

He laughed too heartily again, slapping his knee in such an unnatural fashion that it was almost grotesque. "You are most charmingly direct, aren't you, Madame? Yes, we—everyone here at the Opera Populaire, that is—would be honored to include you in our ranks."

He stood, hands in pockets, frozen smile on his face. He acted as though the matter and the interview were concluded.

Madame Giry found herself perplexed again, and it was such a rare emotion it irritated her deeply. "But monsieur, don't you want to see me in practice, or discuss with me the matters of salary, of dance style, of"—

He placed his hand near her elbow, not touching it but with palm open in a way that suggested he wanted to lead her toward the door. "I trust you implicitly, Madame. I've heard _such _positive reports. As for compensation, well, we are quite generous here, I assure you."

She was almost to the door when she stopped him. "Monsieur, I insist at least on a tour of the theater I'm to direct in."

"Assuredly," he answered, steering her to the door again, opening it for her. "Monsieur Reyer will be pleased to conduct you."

Reyer, who heard this exchange, protested wordlessly, mouth open. His papers….

Lefevere bent down suddenly and put her hand almost to his lips—again, not quite touching. "Madame, a pleasure." He turned back to his office.

Giry was burning with displeasure at the hasty way she'd been offered the fate of one of the most famous ballets in the world and her quick dismissal from the office, but she was in no financial position to argue. She was just able to call out one more question. "Was it my friend and former employer Madame Valerius who recommended me to you?"

Again a moment's hesitation, hand on the knob. Haunted eyes criss-crossed around the room. He said at last with another false laugh, "It is embarrassing to admit, Madame, but I can't quite remember how it was we learned of you. It was probably just the glowing reviews I read in the paper. I'll have to check my files someday to verify. Good day!" He disappeared behind his slammed door.

* * *

It did not take much maneuvering on Giry's part to convince Reyer to leave her alone on her tour of the opera house. He hurried back to the office, determined to be everywhere at once, which he was sure would please the overworked Lefevre.

Giry examined the backstage, the dance studio, her future living quarters. Construction was still underway, and with her dancer's nimble grace she was successfully able to dodge laborers with their heavy planks and carpets.

She stood now on the grand stage.

She looked out at the velvet seats, the slanting gilded banisters lining the balcony above. The royal purple color of the curtains and long silken tassels looked overtly Oriental in design. She liked it. She recognized the architects were brilliant men, melding the classical and the modern perfectly in their redesign of the opera house.

She liked sparse things by nature, so there was one point she was wary of: the over-reliance on gothic sculptures such as the gargoyles lining the rooftop and the somehow menacing-looking cherubs perched on the edge of the box seats. However, she'd never stood on such a perfect stage. It was vast and the wood beneath her heels felt strong and sure, no splinters.

Most mesmerizing of all was the large, ornate chandelier that hanged majestically over the seats. Polished and sparkling, it gleamed an ominous golden-red in the dark.

She breathed in the vague scent a theater always has, of pressed velvet and polished wood. Her career was settled then. No more hopping from place to place; her daughter would have a home now. An odd one, to be sure, but conventionality was never to Giry's taste.

She stiffened suddenly. She glanced down into the steep orchestra pit. Was someone down there, singing? She heard singing. She looked to the left, and to the right. Nothing in the darkness.

The voice….

The voice was moving….

She glanced to the left. Her gaze landed on the box nearest to the stage, separate from the rest. A golden number five was above it. The singing settled there.

She knew what was happening without realizing it. She felt herself moving backstage, up the stairs, and through the doorway into the foyer, the voice louder and louder until she finally entered the box.

The voice was all around her now. Her heart beat wildly, yet no one was there, of course not, because it was—no, it can't be, it _can't—_she gasped as the words transitioned into another song. A song she knew too well.

Though the voice sang in a tongue foreign to most Europeans, she understood it perfectly.

"_Look at your face in the mirrors…they are there inside!" _

"The Ballad of Mirrors," she whispered faintly, her body quivering, her senses pounding.

With cat-like reflexes, she knew he was finally there. She turned around and he stood behind her.

She would not have recognized him were it not for his mask. It was a different mask than the silk one from court. No, this half-mask was finely made, out of what looked like molded leather combined with paper-mache. A tin alloy, perhaps, was used to make it shine like porcelain, elegant and austere. Like the rest of him. He had hair now, rich brown, clean cut, and slicked back. A wig. He was dressed in coat and tails, and was taller and more muscular now. A man.

"Erik," she said weakly.

With the familiar lewd sneer, he swept his cape over his arm as he bowed. "_Bonjour, Anahid."_

Then he flew at her and she felt him press something damp against her face.

* * *

_Julien was stroking her hair, staring at her with such intense reverence she felt her heart twist painfully._

"_Anahid…" he whispered, lost in the sight of her. He buried his face into her shoulder and murmured against her neck, "Anahid…."_

"Anahid. Wake up, Anahid. Or shall I say Madame Giry now? Were you _ever _Madame Girard?"

Her eyes flew open. She was lying on some soft padding. There were long black wooden panels to the sides of her—

A coffin. She was lying in a coffin.

With that startlingly morbid realization, she shot up into a sitting position. Erik loomed over her, cat-like smile on the half of his swollen lips she could see. "I apologize for the unsettling bed, but I have no other currently. I get so few guests." The eerie laugh that still haunted her nightmares returned as he expressed glee at his own joke.

As she massaged away the rest of the chloroform pounding in her temples, she assessed her surroundings. Everything was cool, dark. There were only a few candles lit here and there, allowing her glimpses of a spacious lair with minimal furniture. An ornate throne was situated a few feet in front of the coffin. At the other end, where the candelabra sat, was a pipe organ.

Twisting around, she gasped as she took in the dizzyingly long portcullis that served as the gateway to this strange abode. Squinting, she could just make out that…that _lake_ there in the darkness. An old-fashioned gondola was moored on the concrete bank.

"Welcome to my home, five cellars beneath the opera house!" He announced, spreading out his arms theatrically. He threw his cloak onto the organ bench. "To celebrate, won't you have some port? You are my first visitor, after all." Another grim chuckle.

Her mind was still swimming a little. "Yes."

He looked at her quizzically amused. "You _will_ join me?"

She wrinkled her brow, shaking her head, trying to recall... "No…I meant yes, I did become Madame Girard. The first thing we did once we crossed the border into Bulgaria was marry with our own names. In a swift, secret ceremony." She shook out the rest of the fog in her eyes. "Then we took our assumed names once we reached Belgium."

He said nothing, simply stood there, smiling.

She stepped out of the coffin, and he was impressed how whatever had transpired in the past four years increased the impassive expression she schooled her features into.

At last she spoke. "I did not think to ever see you again."

He shrugged carelessly, brushing away some lint from his elegant sleeve. "I don't suppose I'd given you much thought at all until I decided the time was right to hire a new ballet mistress."

She betrayed no sign of surprise at his statement. "You are working with M. Lefevre, then?"

He threw his head back and howled with laughter. She was tempted to hush him like old times, then realized there was no need to down here, so cut off from all prying eyes and ears.

He stared out from behind his mask with searing amusement. "Me, working _with _that ludicrous man? He is but my puppet, my lackey. _I_ am no man's lackey now." His tone turned ferocious. "And I am not 'Erik' anymore. That creature is dead. I am the Phantom of the Opera!"

He pronounced it with more pride than even Naser had his title of shah. Giry would not allow Erik the pleasure of seeing her cowed by such a ridiculous moniker, so the only change in her expression was a skeptical quirked brow. "The Phantom of the Opera? How quaint. And how…?"

"And how did I earn this lofty position, you ask? I shan't bore you with details, dear lady. I'll only tell you that once M. Lefevre bought the opera house and was seeking contractors to redesign it, I offered my services, providing leverage with certain…_information _I gathered about his last business venture."

"Extortion, how lovely. And your terms included carving out a space of your own down here?"

"Exactly. And that he value my input when I see fit to impart it." The jerk of her features betrayed her momentary discomposure when all of a sudden that damnable Punjab lasso was again in his hands. "I have other methods to put him in line with when the prospect of his shady past dealings doesn't seem so horrible as the things I ask."

She closed her eyes. "Oh, Erik, I intended a fresh start for you."

She stepped back as he suddenly lunged at her, exposed side of his face contorted with fury. "Intentions! Intentions! I _spit _at your good intentions! All your intentions have ever given me is taking me back where I first started when I left home at eight years old: a freak to be gawked at and then abandoned."

She was fierce too. "But Julien and I didn't abandon you! You were the one to leave us!" She recalled the empty road to Bulgaria on board that merchant's cart. She and Julien were sitting in front with Erik in the back. A stop to feed the horses, and when Anahid checked he was gone.

She grabbed his arm now, shaking it, pretense of impassivity gone. "Why did you run away, Erik? Why?"

Though his half-face was empty of emotion she recognized in his tone the boy that rescued the songbird. "On your own, you and Girard had a chance. But with me and my miserable excuse for a face? The odds were not in your favor."

A short silence prevailed. Before a true sad smile reached her lips, the mocking darkness returned to his expression. "Not that my sacrificial act did poor Julien any good in the long run. Or shall I say 'Jules'? That was the name he went by, correct?"

She had by now emptied her own face again of any softness. "Yes."

"Julien Girard to Jules Giry. I must say, not the most original switch. Weren't you two worried at all that his government and yours may not be so easily bamboozled?"

She gave a slight shrug. "In all honesty, we knew that as long as we kept silent and out of political sight, our governments were perfectly willing to turn a blind eye. The arrests of two previously loyal agents so close to their countries' courts would serve as a national embarrassment more than anything else. The only real trouble was getting out before Naser's assassins could reach us. Once we were out of Persia and the countries surrounding it, we didn't worry too much about how closely our new identities hewed to the old. Antoinette has a similar cadence to Anahid, I liked it, and so there you are. We took our chances at a normal life."

He was leaning against the pipe organ now, arms crossed. "He working as an accountant and you teaching dance to slum children just outside Lomme, you mean?"

"You certainly know everything, don't you?"

"Yes," he said frankly. He turned serious and his voice quieted. "Except for one thing. Was Julien's death really an accident?"

Her expression didn't change, but her lips whitened and her eyes dimmed. "Yes," she said truthfully. "At least as far as I know." She laughed humorlessly. "In a way I almost wish it hadn't been. Then it wouldn't be as senseless as it was. At least he died a hero, pushing that old couple out of the way before the carriage hit."

"How touching," Erik said bitterly.

"Look," she stormed, composure and patience gone at any perceived jabs at Julien. "I've humored you enough. Why did you really want me here?"

He shrugged. "Like I told you, we need a new dance mistress. Since your husband's death, I've been following your career and I admire your gumption, though I must say, any linguistic expert could sniff you out in a second. Your accent is _too _precise, _too _obvious; you must learn to restrain yourself. But ah, I've offended you!" He pretended to look abashed as she bristled. "Let me instead return to flattering your ingenuity. What an image you've cultivated! Antoinette Giry, striking young widow who's danced in opera houses all over Europe with Madame Carina Valerius's famous dancing troupe, making your debut in Belgium, in Italy, in Austria! Tell me, what motivated you to leave that all behind, eh?"

"I've earned enough now to seek something more...stable. After all, I never intended to lead such a globe-trotting life once I left Persia. But we do what we can"-

"—Only to survive, I know. I heard you say that to Lefevre." At her questioning look he said emphatically, "It will do you well to remember that I have my eyes and ears open everywhere around my opera house." She noted the "my". "That will serve you well in your career here."

"Listen, Erik. I'm not sure I feel comfortable about this situation. I don't think it's a good idea. I'm not taking the job."

"Yes, you are," he said calmly.

"Oh? And what makes you so confident?"

"That I know you are Anahid Girard née Najami."

The blood rushed to her head but before she could explode he continued. "If I turn you in, even as embarrassed as the government is, they'll have to arrest you. If you at all try to turn the tables and accuse me, I have mastered the art of escape so well I could elude the authorities in a heartbeat. _You, _however, might just wriggle out of a death sentence, but in the meantime…what will become of your little daughter?"

His quick reflexes caught her hands just before the fingernails clawed at his face. Secretly he was unsettled seeing Anahid, always so staid and composed, wrestling in his grasp, face like an enraged tigress's.

"Monster!" She spat. "Mention my daughter again and I'll"—

"You will do _nothing," _he yelled, throwing her away from him forcefully.

They both stood glaring at the other, breathing labored.

At last Erik spoke. "I need someone I can trust to do my bidding. Someone who is not a frightened buffoon like Lefevre. Someone I can show this place to in case of emergency, who is familiar with my architecture and can recognize a trapdoor, see themselves through a labyrinth. You possess all these qualities, Anahid. But I must be sure of you, and this is the only way I see how."

There was such sickened loathing in her face he felt an ache. "Such low, contemptible"—

"_I will watch over her."_

She froze. "What?"

He stepped forward tentatively, watching her reactions closely. "Your daughter. I will watch over her here." Before she could jeer at his offer, he continued. "Think about it, Anahid. You are a widowed woman with no friends, no family. A dancer. What sort of future do you think awaits your child?"

She said nothing.

"Knowing you, you've got her dancing already. All right, very well. Bring her here. Get her started in classes. As she grows, I will watch over her, make sure no harm comes to her, ensure no rich count without any morals goes near her."

"Getting fatherly, are we, Erik?" She asked sardonically. "You're not even twenty, I'd wager."

"Yes, nineteen. Please don't mistake this as any genuine concern for your brat. What should I care for her? But just as I have my lasso to secure Lefevre's obedience in case extortion fails, you have my oath to protect your daughter in case extortion fails for you. You refuse, I go to the police and you lose your freedom and her in one fell swoop."

She wished she still carried her dagger concealed on her ankle. She would gladly, gladly gut him where he stood. However, one long deep look she gave him revealed there was something akin to…regret, sorrow in his rich brown eye.

Either way, she was trapped. "I suppose you win for now, Erik," she said resignedly.

He clapped his hands, the theatrical madman again. "Excellent, excellent! Come, I'll escort you above. I want you to memorize the route to and from my establishment, just in case you ever need it, you understand. Then a tour of the dressing room mirrors and the trapdoors, though they all haven't been built yet. It's a nuisance I will have to rebuild once the war with Prussia begins, since I'm sure their army will try to take such an ingeniously designed palace down a peg or two- yes, Anahid, I _am _sure that's what it will come down to in the end, mark my words and see if I'm wrong. Anyway, here's my boat!"

* * *

Madame Giry returned to her hotel late at night, exhausted both physically from the detailed guided tour Erik had given her and emotionally from…from her whole life, really.

"How is she?" Giry asked the daughter of the concierge who agreed to look after the child.

"She is sleeping, Madame. Such a sweet girl!"

Giry couldn't even spare a weary smile. "Thank you. You may leave." She handed the young woman her fee and the girl curtseyed, letting herself out.

Like one dying in a desert who sees water ahead, Giry rushed to her daughter's room.

She stood over the bed, looking at the strawberry blonde curls spread over the pillow, the small face turned to the side, mouth partly open and eyes gently shut.

Giry knelt beside the bed. With a feather light touch she stroked her daughter's hair. _Meg. My little Meg._

Just Meg was all she was. Not Marguerite, not Marjorie. _"I had a nurse when I was little," Julien said out of nowhere one evening as he fixed the cushions behind his pregnant wife. "Meg was her name. I never knew what Meg was short for. I'm not even sure what her background was, so it could have been a French Marguerite or even an English Margaret. All I know is that woman raised me from a babe to a young boy, was the only true kindness and motherly care I received in my household." His eyes were gloomy. "Then I was sent away to boarding school. When I came back, Meg was gone. I asked Mother and Father, and they shooed me away saying I had no need for a nurse now so she was dismissed. But to where? How should they know, they argued, it wasn't their business to know every detail about a former employee's life. They'd never even bothered to learn her last name."_

_He frowned. "Suffice to say, I never saw her again. But I swore one day I'd honor her." He looked at his wife, his hand on her stomach. "I know just plain 'Meg' isn't the most elegant name for a child, but if we have a girl"—_

_Her hand covered his. "Meg is a noble name. I should be honored if our child bore it." _

Two months after Meg entered the world her father left it.

Giry smiled at the tiny toe shoes in the corner. Erik as always was not wrong. Yes, Meg was dancing. But it was little Meg's own idea. It had been one of her first requests once she could form full sentences, having grown up in her three years watching her mother dance from the wings of various opera houses across Europe to support her one treasure.

Meg's safety was the one sole point of her mother's life. She was worried before the child was born that her Persian heritage would appear too overt to go unnoticed, but once she saw the shock of fair reddish-blonde hair and pale skin she was comforted. After all, her own mother had been a redhead with fair coloring, and Julien assured her everyone in his family shared his blonde coloring, especially his petite young petted sisters he'd left behind when his family disowned him, and again when he went into hiding. Though such coloring was not uncommon in Persia, it would still do much to convince outsiders that Meg was fully European.

"_My Persian yellow rose," Jules Giry said, touching his daughter's hair for the first time._

Madame Giry continued gazing at her daughter. She'd never loved anyone or anything as much as this child. What she felt for the girl twitching restlessly in her sleep was beyond what she once thought was the normal human capacity. Not even her vast love for Julien touched the all-encompassing devotion she felt for Meg. The child was quite simply her soul.

She pressed fervent lips to her child's temple, closing her eyes. "I will keep you safe, Meg," she whispered. "I will always keep you safe."

* * *

**I'd like to give a shout out to tumblr users rjdaae, pleading-eyes, fdelopera, princeofconjurers, hopsjollyhigh, and neimhaille for helping me figure out what materials Erik's mask might be made out of. I kind of used an amalgamation of all you'se guys' suggestions. Oh, and an extra thanks to fdelopera for some historical info. If anything in these past chapters and the next has passed historical muster, it's thanks to this fabulous user.  
**


	3. Chapter 3

In the winter of 1880, Christine Daae sat in her guardian's backroom, worrying her red scarf with her hands. She was waiting for Madame Giry and her daughter to call on Madame Valerius from the Paris Opera House.

Christine was just eighteen, her birthday having passed in the second week of January. Although a woman by the standards of any day, the fawning treatment given her by her invalid guardian Madame "Mamma" Valerius kept her frozen in a childlike state of naivete—that, and the fact she lived constantly in her close past.

Her father died four years before. She felt the sharp wound as though it were freshly delivered.

Gustav Daae was considered the finest violinist of his day, but was even more infamous for his rustic image and eccentric personality. Shunning the public eye, scowling throughout his recitals at elegant halls, he nonetheless possessed a rich heart and a warm nature. The man who would barely look an influential critic in the eye while shaking his hand would play his instrument for hours for peasant children, joining them in their village dances.

He felt deeply. So did his daughter.

He never fully recovered from his wife's death. To Christine, Liliane Réhal Daae was a sweet but distant memory. Born in the slums of Paris, Liliane traveled across Europe as the star of Carina Valerius's famous touring ballet company. She was a beautiful, dark girl whose large, wondering eyes and gentle gestures carried Gustav's heart away more deftly than she could even dance. They met in Stockholm, and married three months later.

Gustav Daae, independently famous and wealthy through his work rather than through old familial connections (he was born from a line of poor farmers), married the young dancer to no public ado or outcry. Even the fact the girl was Jewish could not make a dent in the violinist's growing public acclaim.

The couple settled in Uppsala and were happy for a long period. Although Madame Valerius was disappointed her star dancer and dear friend retired to commit herself as Daae's wife, she nonetheless took it on herself to see her pet was taken care of. She, too, was native of Sweden, and let her and her wealthy husband's vast estate to the couple.

Professor Valerius, always acquiescent to his wife's wishes, patronized the gruff but kindly Gustav and paid him handsomely to play at village concerts. When Christine was born, the Daaes were ecstatic. "You are a masterful dancer, and I a masterful violinist," Gustav proclaimed to his wife. "Therefore, our daughter shall master singing."

Liliane replied sweetly in the affirmative, allowing him to give Christine lessons—while she taught the little mass of dark brown curls and large doe eyes ballet. These were Christine's strongest memories of her mother.

Liliane died of pneumonia when Christine was four weeks shy of her sixth birthday. Christine could never dance very well after that.

Gustav never spoke of his grief. The mourning transferred instead to his violin-playing, giving his music an added darker texture, filled with beautiful and dreadful things that thrilled each listener.

And so his acclaim grew. He toured the Scandinavian countries. But he never left there, until Christine was ten and Madame Valerius insisted the father and daughter accompany her and her husband to their vacation home in Perros-Guirec for the summer.

All the love and fervor Gustav had split equally between wife and daughter now fell all on Christine. Never were a father and daughter closer. When he saw her brown eyes shine with anticipatory wonder at the idea of the seaside, he could deny her nothing.

"Papa," Christine said to him on the train, her hand slipping into his, "Will the Angel of Music know where we are in case he wants to visit me?" She spoke seriously, as if inquiring after an important person she would like very much to be acquainted with.

With his usual hearty laugh, he pinched her shoulder, making her squeal. "Don't you think the Angel knows his business, girl? He'll find you true enough when you are ready. Until then, go to sleep and don't bother me." He finished this speech by suddenly tickling her stomach until she hiccoughed, ensuring she stay awake a little longer.

Christine took to the seaside as naturally as an Irish selkie, her father claimed. Mamma and Professor Valerius would often wake to find father and daughter missing, and after inquiries to the staff, invariably found they'd retreated alone to the beach, Christine walking dreamily along the shore, singing to her father's playing from where he sat on a far off log.

They often ended their days this way as well. On one fine evening, the sky a blue covered in velvet, Christine walked even more absentmindedly than usual, the red scarf her mother had made her tied loosely around her neck. A group of Parisian tourists arrived that day, and the air was laced with pleasant chatter from cliffs and corners where the visitors congregated with their staff and callers as they wined and dined overlooking the sea.

She passed a group of young men, whose rambunctious wine-soaked singing died out at the ethereal, unearthly notes Christine sang.

All at once her singing stopped as an unexpected gust of wind carried away her most prized possession, making her cry out "My scarf!" with hands outreached. She watched dismayed as it floated into the waves.

"I'll catch it, my lady!" A good-humored, boyish, yet masculine voice cried out. She dodged a tall, slim, flying thing crashing clumsily into the waves, swaying on his feet. Through the dark mist, she could just make out a crown of dark gold hair and a well-muscled yet svelte back.

At last he emerged, waving the damp scarf in the air as revolutionaries would their flag. The cheering from the drunk boys was enthusiastic.

"Here you are, sweet lady!" He announced, stooping down to give it to her, rum on his breath. He was dripping wet.

She stepped back, voice caught, afraid and exhilarated.

The handsomest face in the world smiled down at her.

She could tell he was native to France by his accent. His bone structure could only be described by authors of the time as perfectly Grecian.

She didn't see this face for long. His wet hand came down on her curly head and ruffled it so that some of the curls fell in her eyes. Although the young man was obviously rather inebriated, he spoke eloquently and warmly. "I wouldn't let a little lady who sings so prettily lose such a pretty scarf. What ho, what a voice you possess, mademoiselle! Are you by chance the star at the Paris Opera House?"

"I—I"— Christine replied. She was staring down at her scarf, twisting out the water with her fidgety hands. Her cheeks were as crimson as the scarf.

He suddenly grabbed her gently by the arm, excited as he spotted something in the distance behind her. He said in a rushed whisper, "Don't mean to interrupt, mademoiselle, but do you see that man on the log over there, playing the violin?" His pale blue eyes were alight with eagerness. "That is—I can't believe it!—that is the great Gustav Daae! He's a marvelous violinist, simply the best in the world! I heard him five years ago when I was a child during a brief visit he made to Paris, and he's the tops! He doesn't go out much these days, a bit of a recluse—something I admire, you know, the gumption to say, 'to hell'—er, 'to the _devil_ with you lot! I go my own way.' To see him here, in good old Perros!" He was as excited as a little boy.

"Hzmfthuh", Christine mumbled quickly.

He blinked a few times. "Er, what was that, mademoiselle? I apologize, I think I must still have some sea water in my ear."

"He's my father," she said more clearly.

"I'm sorry, I still didn't get that. It sounded like you said, 'he's my father'."

"I did."

She thrilled at how this handsome face went suddenly slack with disbelief. Then he laughed out loud, which thrilled her even more. It sounded almost like her father's.

"Your father! Your father, you say? Well, no wonder you've got such a pair of top-notch pipes!" He made a steep bow, making Christine giggle. "An honor, Mademoiselle Daae."

She gave no reply at first, simply continuing to giggle, cheeks rosier and rosier. "Do you—do you want to meet him?" She asked shyly.

She was delighted anew by the boyish ecstatic light in his expression. "Me? Meet _him? _Oh say, I don't want to take advantage of our new acquaintance to"—

"Nonsense!" She surprised herself by saying. She never knew where she found her courage, but she took him by the hand and led him up the slope to where her father sat playing.

Sharing his daughter's dreamy nature, Gustav was so enraptured by his melody he'd neglected to notice the recent drama of his daughter's lost scarf and its subsequent rescue. He frowned warily as his dearest treasure dragged by her hand a handsome youth. Yet he found himself softening right away at the open friendliness the boy's face possessed.

With manly verve, the boy put forward his hand. "Monsieur, I am your most ardent admirer, Raoul de Chagny."

And thus the love of Christine Daae's life, her future husband and father to her children, professed more open admiration to her father than to her in their first meeting.

Gustav raised his bushy eyebrows, accepting the boy's hand. "De Chagny? Of the old family in Paris? Shouldn't you be a viscount, then?"

Christine saw the noble jaw stick out. "I'm a revolutionary," he said adamantly. "I reject all titles."

Christine watched pleased as her father, usually depressed and taciturn in the company of others, laughed with amused approval. "A revolutionary, eh? And at such a young age! How old are you, boy without a title?"

"Fourteen, sir." To the ten-year-old Christine, fourteen was a glamorous, adult age, perfect for a prince one admires from afar.

Gustav pointed authoritatively to a sandy spot by his log with his bow. "Sit, sir. You interest me. How did you meet this young ragamuffin of mine?"

"He rescued my scarf from the sea, Papa," Christine blurted out. She clamped down again as Raoul quickly collapsed at the spot indicated, lying on his side, staring up happily at Gustav.

Her father thanked him for his efforts. "My pleasure," the boy Raoul said honestly. "I've been hobnobbing with that loud crowd of sailors over there. My sisters and my brother disapprove of course, but what do I care? They're with the royalist majority and I'm not. I like good honest working people." He emphasized this by bringing his fist down into the sand. He still swayed from the rum, which endeared him to Gustav even more. "That's why I'm joining the Navy the first chance I get. To incite rebellion and bring France back to glory. Those fellows were just teaching me some sea chanties to get me ready."

"Will you sing us some?" Christine asked quietly.

Gustav approved of the blush that crossed Raoul's face here, denoting he knew what was proper for a young lady to hear. "Er, better not, Miss. I'd much rather hear _you _sing again."

"Yes, a splendid idea!" Gustav said, bringing his violin to his shoulder. "You sing to my playing, Christine."

"Christine. That's a pretty name," Raoul said in an off-handed pleasant way as he leaned back into his folded hands, staring out to the sea.

Christine's heart grew wings and flew out of her body.

She never sang so beautifully before. She brought tears even to her father's eyes.

From that day forward, Raoul de Chagny was a constant companion of Gustav and Christine Daae's. His older brother, his guardian, allowed him to take violin lessons once he learned it was the great Gustav Daae his little brother was whiling away his time with (given the man's dress and habits, and his brother's unconventionality, Philippe de Chagny first assumed Gustav was a grubby peasant).

Raoul took well to the violin, but in truth he spent most of the time sitting with little Christine in the attic, having picnics with Gustav as the older man regaled them with dark stories of the North, and their favorite, the children's verse about "Little Lotte".

Gustav always let little Christine sing her favorite lines:

"_But what she loved best, Lotte said_

_Is when I'm asleep in my bed_

_And the Angel of Music sings songs in my head_

_The Angel of Music sings songs in my head."_

"You _will _be visited by the Angel, my child," Gustav always insisted.

"Hear, hear!" Raoul agreed.

Christine would glow with pleasure.

Raoul felt no embarrassment that he, a young man of good family, spent the majority of his summer at the side of a rustic old man and his little girl. He would eagerly tell Gustav all about his political aspirations, his desire to socialize the national government and to lead another Paris Commune. Raoul would then tug on Christine's curls and challenge her to see which of them could stand on one leg the longest. He always let her win, and she knew it, and loved him all the more ardently for it.

For she was in love with this young man with all the genuine passion a ten-year-old can have for the dashing fourteen-year-old who saved her scarf from the sea. Each night, Gustav was amused to overhear her prayers before she tucked herself in bed, thinking herself unheard:

"…Please bless Papa, Mamma in Heaven, Mamma Valerius here, and Professor Valerius. Bless and keep Raoul de Chagny, and please make him fall in love with me. Thank you. Oh, and please give Mademoiselle Clothilde Reinard a pimple right on her nose." Mademoiselle Clothilde was a sixteen-year-old local belle Christine once heard Raoul describe as pretty as they passed by. Blushing, Christine would quickly retract the statement from her prayer, afraid of her own jealous temper.

Christine herself was not a beauty yet, aside from her lustrous curls and soft brown eyes. Her face was sweet but thin, and her long spindly legs made her taller than average for her age, giving her an overall gawky look. Coltish summed her up. At ten she of course did not possess womanly charm to compensate, but she was genuine, and she charmed nonetheless with her sincerity and her eagerness to please.

Raoul adored her as the little sister he never had, just as he loved Gustav as the playful father figure he did not possess with the kind but cold Philippe. Raoul often liked to tell Christine that he would keep a sharp eye on any future suitor of hers, and give the miscreants what-for if they should dare try to insult her honor.

Christine liked to pretend this was romantic jealousy, not brotherly concern, though she was no fool.

To the dismay of the three involved, the summer eventually came to a close, and Raoul had to leave with his family.

He approached the Daae duo as they sat at their usual log. He somberly shook Gustav's hand. "I can't tell you what your friendship means to me, monsieur."

Tears misted the violinist's eyes. "My boy, I feel like I'm losing a son."

"Oh, don't say that, monsieur! We shall see each other again, I know it!"

"Do you promise?" Christine asked, surprising them. She'd been so silent, staring at the sand at her feet. Now her large fawn-like eyes stared with teary appeal into the sea-blue eyes of the boy before her.

Swept up in emotion, Raoul planted a firm kiss on her curly head. "I promise, my Little Lotte." Scared of any more strong emotions he might display, he walked away, head down, hands stuffed stiffly in his pockets.

Once he was gone from sight, Christine sank to her knees and cried harrowingly into her father's lap.

Her heart had indeed flown away, and would it never come back?

"No," she said at night, staring at her ceiling. "No, he promised he'd come back. He promised."

And indeed he did, though three years would pass.

In the meantime, he kept up a steady correspondence with Gustav, always sending his love to his Little Lotte. Despite his earlier expectations, Gustav was enamored with Perros, and when Professor and Madame Valerius decided to retire to Paris, they left Gustav as permanent caretaker of their beachside estate.

There he worked on various compositions, all half-done and erratic. Christine often asked him if _his_ Angel would ever visit, and he'd swallow his disappointed anger and say, "Not yet, my child. He's waiting until you're old enough to come visit _you." _And he'd kiss her on the cheek and abandon what he was doing to give her another singing lesson.

Her voice grew more and more beautiful with each passing day. With both her mother dead and now Mamma Valerius gone to Paris, Christine's dancing fell to the wayside, and she threw her heart and soul into her song. Passersby would invariably stop at the window of the Valerius drawing room, enraptured by the angelic, unreal voice of this girl so young as she practiced her scales.

Secretly Gustav worried about his daughter. Since Raoul's departure, she shunned all other company but her father's. It was all well and good to like a handsome older boy, but certainly after some months without his company such feelings should fade with the caprices of youth.

But Christine's did not. She thought and spoke of Raoul often, and disconcerted her father one night when he passed by her bedroom, hearing her whisper "Raoul…Raoul…." somberly into the darkness.

Otherwise she lived solely for her father. Gustav selfishly enjoyed her devotion, and in his weakness he never very strongly encouraged her to form ties with anyone else around Perros. There was no other family for her to maintain friendship with, and aside from the occasional visits from Mamma Valerius when she felt it all right to leave her ailing husband, Christine spent all her time with her father.

Her years in Perros diminished her Swedish accent almost entirely, her mother's French roots beginning to show more prominently. Her dark eyes, curly hair, and slim figure fit the typical French image more than the fairer voluptuous one ignorant members of society associated with Sweden. "You are a regular Parisian," her father would tease her.

Christine blushed at these words, regarding Paris as a far-off, sophisticated mecca. Did Raoul like Parisian-looking girls…?

When she was thirteen he returned. It was a brief sentimental stop before he left for the Navy.

When she heard him arrive, Christine froze in the kitchen where she was preparing the tea, swaying as she heard his new deep, soothing baritone ring out his greeting to Gustav in the drawing-room. Right before she entered with the tray, she smoothed her muted pink skirt and checked her reflection in the mirror, her heart pounding so loudly it hummed in her temples.

Although her looks had certainly improved over the years—her face was a little fuller now, her dress more flattering to her lissome figure—she still was a bit too ungainly, her manners still guileless to the point of gawkish.

Still, it would have taken a far colder heart than Raoul de Chagny's not to be touched by the dewey-eyed look of sincerity and tenderness on the almost pretty face that awkwardly entered the room.

"Little Lotte," he said fondly, walking up and kissing her hand once she placed her tray carefully on the table. He graced her with a melancholy half-smile, a new expression.

He was seventeen now and looked like a man. He'd almost reached his full height, standing two inches taller than her father. His bone structure increased his resemblance to Adonis. He was astoundingly, devastatingly handsome.

"You've changed, Raoul," she whispered. She did not mean his mature looks alone.

There was a distant sadness to him now, a weary gleam in his ocean-blue eyes.

"So you became a viscount after all," Gustav said.

That strange, wry half-smile again. "It was Philippe's final wish. I could not deny him that."

Christine blushed furiously, ashamed of herself for forgetting to express her sympathies right away. "Oh yes, we'd heard about that! Oh Raoul, I'm so, so sorry."

The deep worry in her eyes—they practically said, "let me comfort you, _please_"—appealed to Raoul more than any words could. _Precious little Christine, _he thought, taking her hand and pressing it. She was still in his mind a cherished little sister.

"Pneumonia," Gustav said bitterly. "That's just what took Christine's mother from us."

This proved how closely Gustav felt to Raoul. Christine seldom heard her father refer to Liliane.

"I thank you both for your sympathies. It came on very suddenly. My brother was an old-fashioned soul, and we didn't agree on everything, but I loved and admired him just the same." He raised his eyebrows just then, sighing. "You may think I've abandoned my liberal leanings, but I promise you I haven't. But I've had to rally round and carry on the family tradition of title and land-holding now that I'm the only male heir alive." He shook his head suddenly, agitated. "But I'll be da—_hanged _if I have to stick around to do it." The old righteous fire was back, only with a harder edge. "Thus I'm joining the Navy anyhow."

"Do be careful, Raoul," Christine said, hand on his arm. "I'm too stupid to fully understand what's going on in the world right now and I know everything's settled down now that the Prussians are out of France, but…but…." Her eyes were so beseeching.

Raoul was both touched and heartbroken to suddenly see the truth of Christine's feelings so nakedly. With infinite tenderness he cupped her cheek. "Dear Christine," he said. "I'll return in one piece, you'll see." He winked, the ghost of his former carefree self.

An hour passed, a blissful, confusing hour for Christine's poor fluttering heart, and then Raoul stood to take his leave. He embraced Gustav tightly—Gustav had intimated before Christine came in that not all was well with him health-wise, and Raoul with a strange foreboding took the Swede in his arms as if for the last time—and said fond words of farewell.

Then once more with that mystifying, fascinating, heart-wrenching half-smile he kissed Christine on her cheek. "Mademoiselle, I shall never forget you," he gave her.

He left.

She couldn't say anything to her father. She ran to her room, almost tripping over her skirts as the tears blocked her vision.

The strange alteration in him, the sadness, did not in any way diminish his appeal to her. If anything, her adoration intensified. "We can make him happy, Father and I," she told herself that night as she lay awake, listening to the sea outside her window. "He'll come back to us and it will be as before. And I shall be so beautiful and kind he'll forget everything that ever made him sad, and father will kid the darkness out of him."

But a year later her father was gone.

The doctor said it was cancer of the lung. But Christine didn't remember this, or any of the details from his short illness. It was all a nightmarish blur, and were it not for the recently widowed Madame Valerius taking over, watching over father and daughter both, Christine doubted she would have survived the shock.

All she remembered was her last talk with him at his bedside.

He drew her near. All he said to her was what he'd said a million times before: "When I'm in Heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you." This time there was such a reverent, mystical light in his eyes that she shivered. She knew it to be true, because in his delirium, it truly was. Then his grip on her hand loosened and he was gone.

Mamma Valerius came running at Christine's unearthly keening wail. The young girl looked like a madwoman from a Greek tragedy. Although Mamma Valerius had felt misery at her husband's passing, such deep, all-abiding sorrow was an unknown entity to her.

Christine didn't speak for a week after. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, like a corpse herself. Madame Valerius feared for her sanity. The doctor, a wise man, said she was in shock and would come to by herself.

She did. She woke up calling for her father.

Madame Valerius took her to Paris.

Almost four years followed of recovery. Four years of Christine going through the motions for her foster mother, of lifeless singing and dancing lessons. Her voice lost its luster, its strength, its ethereal power. It was a limp dead thing, pitch perfect and pure of tone and empty, staggeringly empty. Weak and tremulous. She danced with the precision and grace of a lumbering goat. She was miserable when she was paying attention to what went on around her.

So she lived inside her mind instead.

In the vast seaside of her mind, there was everything—angels and fathers and dashing young men with the sun in their hair and the sea in their eyes. Raoul would rush in and save her from the brigands holding her hostage, whisk her away back to her worried father. "The Angel of Music led me here," Raoul would murmur in her curls, his hands firm around her waist. "He has shown me what a fool I've been. I've loved you all the time."

What came next in her fantasies made her blush with shame in the morning, yet their potent power turned her spiritually from a girl into a young woman—and into a beauty. She still retained the childlike mannerisms and attitudes, but there was a suppressed longing that was not a girl's.

She'd only half-given up believing in the Angel. Her father promised her...

But why should the Angel visit her when her voice was now so weak? Who was there to sing for now, with Father dead and Raoul...Raoul who knows where on the vast sea, with his shipmates? Internally she wanted to burst forth with melody, but the reality was too much for her, and nothing worthy of art came out.

Still.

Her father promised her...

Christine started from her reverie in Madame Valerius's home, hearing the visitors ascend the stairs. Madame Valerius was slowly ailing herself and seldom left her bed these days. She received her visitors there, a door linking her room to the backroom Christine now nervously occupied.

Christine heard voices and despite her ingrained sense of propriety, she flew silently to the door, pressing her ear there, listening. She still gripped her scarf.

Madame Valerius's wry laugh. "Antoinette, Antoinette! Lord, you haven't changed a bit: austere and majestic as always. Oh pooh, Madame, don't put on such airs. Kiss my cheek, my dear."

Madame Giry apparently acquiesced, then cleared her throat. "I regret your illness, Madame Carina. I regret too not being able to see you the past five years, despite our close approximation. But you are familiar with the rigors of theatrical life." Giry's voice was distant and imperious, and Christine had never heard such a crisp Parisian accent. She shifted self-consciously. With just her voice alone this woman made Christine feel like a common country-girl.

"Nonsense, nonsense," Madame Valerius responded. "The fault is mine. I've been preoccupied, as you of course know, with my dear adopted daughter. She's had a hard time of it, poor thing...ah, but speaking of daughters! Hello, mademoiselle," she said, changing the tone of her voice to the sweet notes Christine recognized she used with her.

A rustle of skirts. Madame Giry's daughter must be curtseying. "Hello, Madame. It is such a pleasure to see you again." Christine tilted her head. The voice was small, breathy, yet pert and full of warmth.

"Why, you're practically all grown up, Meg! Let's see, you were how old when I last saw you...?"

"I think I was about ten, Madame."

"Yes, ten, of course. And you are now...?"

"I turned fifteen in November, Madame."

"Well, I must have told you back when you were ten that you are not to call me 'Madame'. Leave that title to your authoritative mother. I prefer 'Mamma Valerius' and nothing else. Come here and kiss me, too."

The girl Meg moved with quick, graceful steps, her feet barely making any sound. She evidently echoed her mother and kissed Madame Valerius's wrinkled cheek.

"I hear you are quickly rising in the ranks of the corps de ballet, mademoiselle."

"Yes, that is true." There was neither false modesty nor vanity in her cheerful frank response. It was a fact: nothing more, nothing less.

Madame Valerius laughed again. "That takes you back, doesn't it, Antoinette?" Madame Giry must have nodded, for Valerius continued addressing Meg: "You have heard, mademoiselle, how your dear mother came to my rescue five years after my star pupil Mademoiselle Réhal eloped and left my company floundering without a proper leading lady? Your mother appeared out of nowhere to help me teach, and before I knew it, she stepped in as the star."

"Mother doesn't talk about it much, but I remember it a little myself. One of my first memories is watching her dance in...it was _La Sylphide, _wasn't it, Mother?"

"There were many, my child." Christine thrilled at the promise of tragic secrets and heartbreak that hid in the valleys of Madame Giry's deep voice.

"You have a very good memory then, mademoiselle," Valerius said. "You couldn't have been but three when your mother decided to retire here, leaving my poor troupe to wander unmoored once again. Five years later I followed her example and sold my company to that Russian outfit..."

Her voice trailed off, as it often did now, lost in her memories.

Madame Giry tactfully steered her back to the matter at hand. "Which brings us, Madame Carina, to Miss Christine Daae."

Christine's heart pounded behind the door, and she chided herself for her fear that the three next door could hear it.

"Oh yes," Meg eagerly interjected, concern in her small voice. "Please, tell us about her."

Christine felt shame burn her cheeks as she heard her adopted mother sigh hopelessly. A pause followed. Then she said, "Christine is a good child. A good, good child."

Another pause. Then rather unsentimentally, Giry prompted, "And?"

Madame Valerius was frank. "And she's totally lost all inspiration. You should have heard her voice when she was younger! Ah! She made the angels weep! But with her father's death..." she presumably shook her head.

Christine blinked back embarrassed tears.

Then came the most soothing, sympathetic tone she'd ever heard in a voice: "How awful for her!" It was the girl Meg.

"Yes, it has been a terrible strain on her," Valerius agreed. "She is a sensitive thing. Her father meant the world to her, and she has no other family. And I—well, we're very fond of one another, but I'm hardly the ideal company for a young woman at the age for society in Paris. What I would like, Antoinette, is to see her placed in the chorus." Despite her illness, Carina Valerius kept an ear open and knew that it was not Monsieur Lefevre or Monsieur Reyer to consult about a place in the opera—it was the forbidding and capable mistress of ballet.

Yet Giry's influence only went so far. "The Paris Opera chorus is perhaps the most competitive in the world," she replied. "It is notoriously difficult to enter. She can audition, of course, but not even the legacy her father leaves behind, or your patronage, is enough to secure her a spot there."

Christine didn't know if she was disappointed or relieved. The world outside Valerius's walls was a frightening proposition. She'd entered Paris a dazed orphan, neglecting to take in the city she'd fantasized about in her childhood. She wasn't sure she was ready to study it now.

Then Meg Giry spoke again, in a way that reminded Christine of a chirping, well-meaning little bird. "Can she dance like her mother did? If so, maybe we could get her a spot in the corps de ballet until her voice improves."

Madame Valerius sighed once more. "She can dance. But dance well? No." Although this too was not news to Christine, it did nothing to help her blushing and her stifled tears. Was she of any use to anyone? "She knows the steps and practices daily, but if you ask me if she has any great potential..."

Meg chirped again, eager now. "Listen, Mother! You can easily secure her a spot as understudy in the ballet. That way she can earn her keep but spend most of her energy working on her voice! Then when she's ready, she can try out for the chorus instead."

The other two voices fell silent, considering. Christine fiddled with the fringe on her bodice nervously, right above that pounding heart.

At last Madame Giry spoke. "It is doable. I can use my influence and that of the Daae, Réhal, and Valerius names to secure her a position as understudy."

"Ah!" Valerius cried, relieved. She clapped her hands. "A splendid compromise. I'm sure if coached correctly, Christine can sing as triumphantly as she once did, and dance passably enough. It is settled?"

"It is settled," Madame Giry confirmed.

Christine jumped as Valerius called her name. "Christine! Come here, my child!" Madame Valerius often found her own trumpeting voice a more valuable servant than a maid for fetching persons around the house.

Counting silently to three, Christine straightened like a soldier preparing for battle and with a sick face she entered the bedroom, leaving her scarf behind.

"Christine, dear! This is my old friend Antoinette Giry of the Paris Opera House, and her daughter Meg."

Madame Giry and Meg were as different as night and day. Madame Giry was all sharp angles and dark sad eyes, black hair, black clothes, tall frame. Her expression and bearing were aloof. Christine sensed there was much kindness lurking there, but for now she was too intimidated by the icy layer that covered it.

Meg Giry, on the other hand! Meg Giry was golden and pink, rosy with youthful prettiness. She was quite petite, and didn't look very at home in her cream-colored dress (Christine would soon learn that was because Meg was almost constantly in her tutu, and didn't know how to move naturally in longer skirts). Where her mother's features were harsh, Meg's were soft and lovely. She possessed a great profusion of blonde curls with reddish highlights, and her bee-stung lips spread into a smile as wide and brilliant as sunshine.

She ran forward, taking Christine's hands in hers. "I am so glad to meet you!" Christine wondered if there was a disingenuous bone in this girl's body, since there was no doubt of the sincerity in her statement, the glad gleam that stared out of her merry almond-shaped green-gray eyes.

Meg spread out Christine's arms and looked her over. "Oh, you're so beautiful!" Meg exclaimed. She turned her head suddenly to her mother, sprightly curls jumping. "Mother, isn't she beautiful?"

Madame Giry stoically inclined her head. "You are lovely, my child," she said.

Indeed, Christine had quite gracefully come into her own beauty. This was shown to much advantage in her quiet beige silk gown. Madame Giry was notoriously rigid with her girls in the ballet, and Mamma Valerius had urged Christine to dress modestly—a needless precaution, since Christine did not own a flashy or flirtatious article of clothing in her entire closet.

Meg leaned in, staring her frankly and deeply in the eyes. Christine noticed a few faint freckles on her fair cheeks. "You've had a very hard time, Christine, I know. Is it all right if I call you Christine? I'd very much like to be your friend." She squeezed Christine's hands reassuringly. Her dimples showed as she smiled, and Christine felt tears prick her eyes for very different reasons than before.

"Christine," Madame Valerius said. "How does dancing as understudy in the ballet sound to you? From there you can practice more until you're ready for the chorus."

Christine blanched now that it was her turn to speak. She was far more composed now than in her younger years, but she still struggled with her ancient shyness. She nodded, and licked her lips before answering. "I...I should be honored to join your ballet in any capacity, Madame Giry."

Meg squeezed her hand again as she trembled.

Something in Christine's doe-eyed manner appeared to soften Madame Giry somewhat. A smile almost graced her features. "I will be glad to have you. But remember, being the daughter of the late Gustav Daae and Liliane Réhal is not enough. You must work hard, both at dance and in your singing if you want to make anything of yourself."

Christine nodded again, hypnotized by the authority in her voice. "Yes, Madame. I shall."

"We have all sorts of wonderful singing teachers at the opera house," Meg told her. "You'll have no trouble at all, I'm sure!"

"Of course she'll be staying here with me, not in the dormitories," Mamma Valerius said to Madame Giry.

Giry didn't seem to think much of this arrangement, but only said with a vague haughty air, "As you wish." She stepped toward Christine, and Christine desperately tried to control her trembling. Madame Giry studied her closely. Then she said, "Rehearsal begins at eight o'clock sharp tomorrow morning. I do not tolerate lateness." With that, she inclined her head to Christine and went over to Madame Valerius's bed to kiss her goodbye.

_Tomorrow. Tomorrow. No, no, _Christine's mind screamed. _It's too soon. I...I don't want it. I don't want anything. I want to run to my room and sob and sob in Father's lap and I don't want anymore disappointed glances or anymore whispered remarks or-_

The girl called Meg cupped her cheek fondly. "You'll be all right now, Christine," she said in that soft warm voice again. Her face was so pleasant, so kind. It worked on Christine's spirit like a balm. Meg gazed into her eyes as if she could read her thoughts—and passed no judgement, harbored no disappointment. There was only compassion and good humor. And for the first time since Gustav's illness, Madame Valerius saw a true smile cross her ward's face.

* * *

**A/N: I know I've taken some great liberties here, like making a four-year age difference between Raoul and Christine. That's because to me, in the stage show Raoul seems so...adult, while Christine still has a bit of the child to her. Of course she grows up in the course of the show, but still, I kind of like my headcanon where in the stage show Christine nursed a puppy-dog crush on an oblivious but affectionate older Raoul.**

**In Leroux Christine's father is never famous, but since Andre knows who he is in the musical, I decided to change that detail as well (along with making Mamma Valerius a former dance mistress-I thought that would be a good way of tying her character to both the Daaes and the Girys, and explain why Christine can dance ballet in the musical).**


	4. Chapter 4

Simplicity is often the core of heroism. Meg Giry seldom stopped to wonder if she could accomplish the things she did in her life. She simply did them.

Compassion, observation, and curiosity were traits that quickly proved dominant in her, cultivated in large part by her mother's behavior and the strange happenings around the opera house, her home.

That's not to say Madame Giry encouraged any of these traits; in fact, quite the opposite: she did all she could to hamper her daughter's wild inquisitive nature, her perhaps over-soft-heartedness when it came to her fellow dancers. But like many parents discover too late, marked discouragement often leads to that same undesired behavior, even in the most obedient child.

And Meg did struggle to be obedient. However, her success depended on how strongly her personal convictions conflicted with her mother's commands.

Madame Giry was a good and loving mother, though it must be said her behavior and attitudes toward Meg mimicked those of a father in that day and age, not what society particularly associated with a doting mother.

She was protective of Meg and strict; Meg never danced a role she wasn't qualified for. Giry was more concerned that Meg's basic vital needs were met rather than coo over her accomplishments, teach her ladylike habits, or gossip with her about the male species. As long as Meg was well-fed, chaste, respectable, and—of course she cared about this—overall happy with her lot, Madame Giry did not concern herself overtly about the subtler aspects that make up a personality. Therefore, though Meg loved and respected her mother, she looked to herself to nurture her own native qualities of kindness and a bravery she herself was not aware she possessed until much later.

Madame Giry is not to be blamed for any unconscious neglect of Meg's internal life, for what choice did the widowed mother have? With no second income, and one of the most famous ballets in the world solely in her hands—along with the various duties assigned her by the Opera Ghost and surviving Prussia's siege of Paris when Meg was only about six years old—Giry simply did not have the time to cultivate the tenderness and gentleness girls look for in their mothers. Luckily for Madame Giry, Meg never felt the lack: she held those traits within herself. She did not remember much of the shelling near Paris or the gnawing hunger when Prussia tried to starve out Paris's resistance, but there was in her makeup the traits of a survivor, a fighter.

Despite her preoccupation with her duties, it did not escape the girl's mother how like her father young Meg grew. It wasn't only his coloring she inherited. She lacked the bitter cynicism thrust on Julien through his experiences in the French court, but she did inherit his intrepid, adventurous spirit. The same impulse which led Julien to the trapdoor outside the palace that night passed to his daughter, who in her time would descend through trapdoors into unknown domains without giving it a second thought.

Meg's childhood in the opera house mirrored that of Alice's experiences in Wonderland. A matter-of-fact and level-headed girl, Meg soaked in the high drama, hectic pace, and grand spectacle of the world around her with straightforward logic as her companion. She was there at age nine when the lead baritone for _Don Giovanni_ showed up drunk ten minutes before the curtain rose, she was there at age seven when the former prima ballerina wailed for her wayward lover and threatened to throw herself from the rooftop if he never returned, and she was there at age twelve when an unlucky stagehand accidentally set a backdrop on fire.

She quickly became adept at handling matters of emergency, though she could fly into hysterics as quickly as the next ballet girl. She was a very reactive person, far too guileless to obscure her emotions when not onstage. Yet cowardice was unknown to her. In effect, she was the first to scream when spotting a mouse in the dressing room, but the first to corner it with a chair, corralling the other girls behind her.

Heroes don't often come in the shape we expect them to. We are trained to think of heroes as physically strong and stalwart with a magnetic, powerful presence. Meg, meanwhile, with her petite frame and girlish earnestness, possessed in person a presence "no more pervasive than a kitten," as Thomas Hardy wrote of his own heroine in _A Pair of Blue Eyes_.

Like her mother, Meg had the ability to blend so well into the background she could be called a wallflower for all her pretty looks. She apparently adhered to the adage that young ladies should be seen and not heard—except on multiple occasions. For in an instant she would command all eyes onto her graceful figure when onstage, or speak up when she felt an injustice was served.

She'd practically been born performing, and without any strenuous effort on her part, she became a master of disguise, of slipping easily into another identity. Perhaps that's what helped her develop such an acute empathy for others. Either way, what took years for dedicated actors to master was simply a way of life for her, a blink of an eye to enter another skin.

Her early and constant training was evident in her movements, too. There was perhaps never a more physically graceful individual. She stood in the ballet fourth position even in repose. Yet she never appeared mannered or unnatural. She simply gave the impression of a quiet, ethereal fairy with a wide-eyed look of curiosity on that charming face.

So ingrained was dance in her that she seldom consciously thought of it as her calling. Her instinct to dance went deeper than a mere calling. It was who she was. She danced almost more than she walked. She loved it surely, but it was the inborn love one has for breathing clean air, for the ability to think and feel.

She possessed the natural heroic traits of courage, perseverance, and kindness, but true heroes also lack one or two weaknesses common to the human race. Meg did of course have flaws, including impulsiveness, untempered curiosity, a compulsion toward living too vicariously through others, and a tendency therefore to play the busy-body. Yet one flaw she lacked which was particularly peculiar in the theatrical world in which she moved was jealousy, both personally and professionally.

It is probable that her very upbringing in the highly emotional opera house weeded out envy in her. She instinctively learned that there would always be a dancer who could do different things better than her—for example, La Sorelli with her tall, flexible body contorted herself into angles and positions Meg could not easily master, and was also better able to take the longer leaps that were becoming more fashionable in contemporary ballet. Yet Meg was cognizant of the fact her smaller, quicker body handled the subtler gestures of swift turns and pirouettes better than Sorelli could, and she was a better actress, too. Instead of sneering with envy at her competitors, Meg learned to simply play up her own strengths, never to imitate.

People felt this within her, and as she was not perceived as a conscious threat, Meg quickly became many performers' confidants. This applied especially to her fellow dancers. Thanks to Madame Giry's unusually rigid surveillance and Meg's generosity of spirit, the corps de ballet in the almost twenty years Madame Giry taught were uniquely close and friendly, with very little catty backstabbing.

If Madame Giry stepped into the role of the conventional strict father figure to both her daughter and the ballet girls, Meg stepped into the role of den mother. She was such a mixture of the outwardly childlike and inwardly mature that the girls depended on her for moral strength and gossiped with her with equal abandon.

One of the first girls to gain the benefit of Meg's unofficial sponsorship was Cecile Jammes. A young, lovely girl of African descent, she showed up to the yearly audition for the ballet at age thirteen, shivering with fright as she took in the pale white skin of the majority of the dancers gathered to try out. Looking down at her own dark skin, she nevertheless steeled herself and approached a group of dancers near a stage manager, and in a voice she hoped was steady inquired where she was to join for inspection. She was greeted by open mouths of silence. Then the stage manager told her curtly she might as well face the fact there would probably be no room for her and the girls looked away, barely attempting to stifle their giggles.

Only one, who was already a prominent member of the corps, did not laugh or smile. This one followed Jammes as with eyes burning with tears she quickly turned away and headed for the exit.

"Wait!" The young girl grabbed Cecile's arm. She turned to see Meg's friendly, sympathetic face. "Listen," Meg whispered. "Do you really want to audition? Then come along! I'll take you directly to Madame Giry. She's my mother, and very understanding."

Cecile couldn't help the slight glee combating with anxiety in her breast as the girls who'd just stared at her with such disdain gaped as Madame Giry's daughter escorted her directly to her mother.

After Jammes's solo audition in front of Madame Giry, the austere ballet mistress told her that while she needed to work extra hard to transform her dancing from that of a calf in a field to that of a gliding swan, she was glad to welcome her to the ballet chorus. As if in a dream, Jammes walked back to the stage manager with Meg, who whispered that she'd never heard her mother give a new dancer such praise.

Very few of the girls from the original audition made the ballet. Still, although Cecile and Meg became close friends, since that day Cecile put up a bit of a boundary between them. As much as she appreciated Meg's efforts on her behalf, the memory was not entirely a good one. Cecile did not want a hero, certainly not a white one. She loved Meg, but more than anything, Cecile Jammes wanted to save herself.

Yet others were more receptive to Meg's sometimes over-eager attempts to help. When despite Madame Giry's precautions a quiet girl named Elodie Moncharmin became pregnant with a married count's baby, it was Meg who visited her at her flat each week, bringing sewing she could work on for fair pay. Meg would sit and drink tea with the single mother, chatting as though nothing were different. She always brought a new rag doll for Elodie's little girl.

Even La Sorelli, the principal dancer of the ballet who felt unending insecurities about her age, her younger fellow dancers, and her career in general, could harbor little ill will toward 'little Meg'. Sorelli would quite often use Meg as an audience for airing her grievances, bemoaning her various idiotic suitors, her sick mother always demanding money, and the incompetence of the staff. Yet despite this display of camaraderie, it must be said Sorelli still kept a close eye on the Giry girl the more and more talented her dancing became.

There was only one aspect of the opera house that filled Meg with a true sense of terror and disquiet. That was the menacing figure of the Phantom of the Opera.

She could scarcely remember a time when he was not the dark twilight zone of danger on the typically sunny horizon of her life. He decided to make his presence universally felt soon after she arrived at age three, heckling from the rafters, casting his shadow from behind backdrops, and allowing glimpses of his cape swoop past corners, and letting the thud of closing trap doors resound behind him. He took to sending letters not only to Lefevre and Madame Giry, but also to Reyer who soon took over as artistic director, and also to prominent cast members who earned his ire with their incompetence.

Meg, of course, did not know that her utter innocence as she grew older was thanks in large part to this figure that terrified her. Although she possessed a level-headed nature and Madame Giry's hawk eyes watching over her, she seldom was forced to use her own wits to evade lecherous suitors. They simply never came near her.

Madame Giry never inquired into what methods Erik used to procure the absence of men in Meg's life. The mother simply took it as a matter of course.

Giry's already naturally taciturn personality became increasingly aloof and gloomy the longer she worked for the opera house and its unofficial owner. She'd seen peoples' careers end in an instant over a minor mistake, and more often than not she'd been the one carrying the letter spelling their doom. She watched as Lefevre's hair turned completely gray as the Opera Ghost demanded an ever-growing salary. She'd seen Joseph Buquet turn into a raving drunk after stumbling back from the cellar, seeing what no man wants to encounter in the dark, alone and unarmed.

Throughout this endless abyss of intrigue, Meg remained the only ray of light in the twisted labyrinth that was her mother's life.

Meg knew her mother had some sort of connection to the ghost and it left the young girl baffled. She'd tried pressing once or twice, but it wasn't until her fourteenth year, when Joseph Buquet claimed to have seen the ghost, that her mother took her aside. "You are a smart girl, Meg, and you are no doubt aware there is someone here who goes by the name of the Phantom of the Opera. No, it is not an invention of Lefevre's or the press. He is real and he is dangerous. I can't tell you how I know or any more than that, just remember: if, for whatever reason, you find yourself in one of the cellars underground (which you'd better never do, young lady), put your hand to the level of your eyes."

This was so completely unexpected that Meg blinked for a moment, rattled. "My hand...?"

"To the level of your eyes. The Punjab Lasso. Now enough. Go and rehearse." And her mother disappeared into the shadows backstage, leaving her daughter dumbstruck.

"My hand to the level of my eyes? The Punjab Lasso?" She looked cautiously around her, shaking with fear. Then straightening her back and with her native courage in her eyes, she followed her mother to the dance studio, chanting inside her head: "Hand to the level of my eyes. Hand to the level of my eyes."

She followed instruction well when she wanted to.

Girls who entered the theater from the outside were always initially dazzled by the so-called splendor within. For Meg, who grew up with the splendor and therefore considered it the norm, she found her mystery and danger in contemplating the Phantom. She collected all the rumors she could about this weird figure, trying to work out which were likely true and which were utter fabrication. So far, every story had these same ingredients, that the Phantom bore a face so hideous it needed a mask, and he possessed the power to kill with a magical lasso. Although not superstitious by nature, the combination of her mother's words and the evidence all around her made Meg the leading believer of the Phantom.

Of the greater mystery surrounding her mother and her past, Meg was completely ignorant. She knew what she was told: her father had been an accountant who died when a carriage hit him, and her mother a dance teacher who took to the stage to make ends meet before coming here. Meg knew little else about her father. There was a portrait of him, grainy and indistinct, that her mother kept hidden in a cupboard.

Once or twice Meg had tiptoed out in the night and watched from behind her partly open door as her mother lit candles and sat down at the cupboard, staring dry-eyed and motionless at the handsome blurred face in the frame.

For all her courage, Meg never was able to ask her mother much about Jules Giry.

Otherwise, Meg continued to dance, continued to grow. Her potential was obvious. Everyone there knew her at least by sight. She was part of the opera house's subconscious, its best and its most fantastical and its most unseen elements. She had even become an unnoticed but intrinsic part of the hidden figure's soul who watched from Box 5. Her dancing was imprinted on him as much as the very columns and stage he himself had crafted.

* * *

**A/N: I know my format might be a little jarring right now, since it seems primarily like a series of character vignettes. I'm going to keep that up a little longer before delving into the events of the show. Then I promise an actual plot will develop, I swear!  
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**There's a theory I ascribe to that ALW!Meg shares the physical characteristics of Leroux!Jammes. So in my universe, ALW!Jammes shares some of Leroux!Meg's physical characterstics (only much prettier). There's a popular idea that Leroux!Meg was a person of color, so that's why I decided to make Jammes of African heritage. Even though I'm not entirely convinced a poc Meg was Leroux's intention, I certainly like the idea.  
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**I borrowed the idea for "wallflower" and other little details about Meg's character from stuff the great Brianne Kelly Morgan said about the character on her blog. So a lot of credit belongs to her. **


	5. Chapter 5

A good hero is often attracted to those troubled and in distress. This can either be a flaw or a virtue: a flaw if the hero exploits another's weakness to better play the hero, a virtue when the hero wants to help the troubled friend find her strength.

Luckily, this was Meg Giry's virtue when it came to Christine. She saw the sorrow and the fragility, but she knew with proper nurturing Christine could flourish. For Meg also saw Christine's strengths, something indefinable but undeniably present. Perhaps it was the way that despite her trembling, Christine met Meg's mother with shoulders squared.

Christine's adjustment to the opera house was a rocky one. Her first weeks confirmed her greatest fears. Her poor dancing earned scoffing from dancers who resented Christine's placement as understudy without the usual rigorous try-outs while they'd been forced to undergo countless grueling auditions, and Christine also had to contend with the strained disappointment in Giry and Reyer's eyes.

The only member of the throng genuinely encouraging, nodding to her when she was uncertain with bright, faithful eyes was Meg Giry.

Without realizing it, Christine quickly became dependent on Meg for moral support. Never before had anyone needed Meg so much, and naturally therefore the young dancer grew to love Christine more than she had any other friend. They both met each other's needs: Meg met Christine's need for support, while Christine met Meg's need to be helpful.

If either were inclined toward possessiveness or vanity, this could have become a very unhealthy balance. As it was, each were genuine in their desire to do better and be better individuals, and were too swept up in their careers to fall into a truly co-dependent friendship. They felt a kinship between them that they both lost a father and only had their mother figure to cling to of their family. Meg, of course, was too young when she lost her father to greatly feel the loss, but she could sympathize with the stranded and isolated feeling encasing Christine.

Whereas many confident people prefer their less sure friends to remain needy in order to boost their already inflated self-worth, Meg right away tried to help Christine become more independent. Still, her good intentions and impulsiveness sometimes did more harm than good. In her eagerness, she set Christine up too quickly with too many singing instructors. The results were always the same: Christine's nerves and lackluster delivery failed to endear her to each instructor who let her know that in no uncertain terms. She'd end up in a small corner of the dance studio with Meg after each unsuccessful lesson and each dismissal from various teachers, clutching her friend's hands and crying.

Meg would stroke her dark curls, her feeling of responsibility increasing.

She took to ingratiating Christine to the other dancers. It took some doing, and not everyone was won over. But Christine shared Meg's sincerity with an added vulnerability that made some of the more tender-hearted dancers protective.

What also helped was Meg's discovery of Christine's love for storytelling.

They had been rehearsing alone in the studio not long after Christine's arrival, Meg coaching Christine as she tried to memorize the intricate turns and steps to the choreography. During a much-needed break, Meg prodded Christine for more information about her background and her favorite pastimes.

Flush with reluctance, Christine admitted, "I like telling stories I heard from my father."

Meg latched onto this at once. "Tell, tell!" The little hand that squeezed her arm and the wide eager eyes reminded Christine of that faraway attic of her childhood. Her voice faltered at first, and she'd lose the thread of her tales, but Meg's attentive audience and her own love for the folktales of her youth soon took over. She lost herself describing the korrigans dancing in the moonlit skies, the Norwegian king in his little boat, and various stories about dark winter ghosts of varied friendly and fiendish natures.

So enthralling were the tales and their narrator that Meg was wrapped up in every word. In these moments they weren't young women on the cusp of adulthood but true children.

Before and after rehearsals with the other girls, Meg encouraged Christine to repeat some of what she told Meg. Frozen at first being the center of attention in a group she was only slowly gaining acceptance in, Christine nonetheless enthralled the petite rats in the same way.

At this point in time, ghosts were particularly in vogue with the ballet girls, as the Phantom was paramount not only in Meg's mind but all over the opera house. Once Christine would begin her yarns, another girl would pipe up about how "that reminds me of the opera ghost's tricks, surely!" Or "yes, the korrigan or whatever-you-call-it rising out of the mist is just like how Joseph Buquet described the Phantom appearing down in the cellars!"

"I don't think the ghost much likes to be talked about," Meg would put in warily, eyeing the rafters and remembering her mother's words. _He's real, not a ghost._

She knew her mother worried that the day would come when Buquet, too intoxicated, could not stop himself from describing that face. Both mother and daughter feared the inevitable outcome should that ever happen.

Christine was at last tolerated on the whole. Each member of the ballet corps, either permanent or working like Christine as an understudy, had their allotted place: Meg was the den mother, Jeanne the gossip, Adele the clown, Nynette the frightened squealer, etc. Cecile was the outspoken one; or she felt pressured into picking up that mantle after her audition. She refused to let Meg continue playing her savior, and if that meant shouldering the role of the outspoken dark girl on her shoulders, then sadly, so be it. She might have preferred sometimes to appear as vulnerable as she felt, but there were some things even Meg was not privy to and could not take care of for Cecile.

Christine, meanwhile, was soon deemed the dreamer.

Christine warmed to the title with equal parts embarrassment and gladness to belong in any small way. Then that very dreamy nature would distract her from her new friends and the opera house, taking her miles away from rehearsal, from backstage gossip.

Not long after the subject of the Phantom first came up, Meg took her aside, near Christine's dressing room.

Mamma Valerius, intending to make Christine's work at the opera house as tolerable as possible, used her influence to procure the girl her very own dressing room. This only accomplished increasing her unpopularity at the time. The other dancers were enraged. "She's just an understudy," they all fumed, indignant this talentless leach should be graced with her own room just because of her famous last name, while they sweat and struggled together all in one compartment.

Still, a combination of Madame Giry assuring the girls that this way they'd be cramped one less person, along with the fact the girls gradually became fonder of the sweet Swedish girl, made them less spiteful. What also helped was the fact this dressing room was so far away from the others—no girls envied this isolation with rumors of the Phantom so rampant.

It was this topic Meg spoke to Christine about. "You know, Christine, there really is a Phantom."

For all her dreamy nature and love of ghost stories, Christine was surprisingly straightforward in everyday conversation. "Now, Meg...isn't that a little too far? An actual Phantom?"

Meg by now trusted Christine more than anyone else outside Madame Giry, so she whispered, "My mother knows him somehow." Before Christine could question this, Meg added, "I don't know how she knows him. She won't tell me. But Christine, whatever you do, be careful!"

Christine shivered unwittingly. "What do you mean?"

Meg looked around in the darkness, then satisfying herself they were as alone as possible, she whispered again, "I think he lives underground, in one of the cellars. Don't go down there, whatever you do! And if you do, raise your hand to the level of your eyes! Something about a Punjab lasso."

Christine shook her head, positively perplexed. "I simply don't understand."

Meg looked a little abashed. "Well, neither do I, not really. I'm just repeating what Mother told me. Please don't repeat this to anyone! I don't want to get her into trouble, you understand, I just want to make sure you're safe!"

This earned a loving embrace from her friend.

Not long after, Christine revealed her own secret to Meg, a secret she made Meg swear not to tell anyone: the story of the Angel of Music.

They were sitting on the floor of the Girys' quarters after an impromptu practice session. Giry was out settling a dispute between a costumer and a dancer, leaving them alone to chat and stretch their tired limbs. In a soft voice, Christine told Meg that the Angel of Music was a sort of muse sent from Heaven that gifted deserving artists with genius.

"Christine," Meg chided. "You said it was silly to believe in the Phantom, yet here you are, believing in Angels!"

Christine shifted, reddening. "I...I don't...it's not like I really believe in an actual angel exactly...but...well...maybe some sort of spiritual event _does_ take place in real geniuses that's sort of _like_ being visited by an angel."

Meg tilted her head, thinking it over. "Yes...I suppose I could see that."

Christine murmured, "Anyway, it's something my father used to tell me."

"Oh," Meg said softly, understanding dawning. She placed a hand over Christine's. "I see. I didn't know. I'm sorry. Your father sounded like a very wise man, so who knows! Maybe he will help you, in his way."

Christine smiled sadly but gratefully at her friend.

More than a year passed, each day cementing their close friendship further. They grew from young girls into young ladies.

The popular but unspoken consensus at the opera house was that they were the principal beauties—but "different breeds of beauties," as lascivious stagehands were wont to say. At seventeen, Meg retained the childlike contours of rounded cheek that denoted her an adorable beauty, and the fascinating tilt of her green-gray eyes and the hint of curvaceousness to her petite form lent her sensuality. Christine, at nineteen, was a classical beauty, her refined features, tall, lithe form, and remote demeanor giving her a pervasive ethereal air.

Not that the features of one was totally lacking in the other. Meg's graceful movements and the way the light hit her flowing golden-red curls often evoked the ethereal feeling most closely associated with Christine. And when a melody's dark, slow undercurrent pulsated in just the right rhythm in Christine's ear, a close observer would note a gleam of sensuality in those deep brown eyes. Sometimes dark, mad fantasies tormented Christine's soul, which would increase the subtly sensual expression about her features, often so easy to miss.

As Meg grew older, the babyish curves to her face would smooth and thin and heighten the sensual allure to her features, and her body would become leaner and more muscular while still retaining the curves that were already turning the heads of particularly brave members of the Opera Populaire. Christine's beauty would increase in its classical refinement, along with a serenity about her that very few of her class achieve. It was a serenity often shaded by deep periods of melancholy that threatened to overwhelm her, but those who loved her soon ushered back that deep calm sea she floated in.

Yet it remained presently that Meg was the one, physically, that burst with girlish youth and ripeness, while Christine looked the more mature, the more gothically constructed heroine. Christine always physically gave the impression she was a few years older than she was, Meg a few years younger. Therefore it would have been a comical sight indeed to see the two girls as they so often were, with Meg taking Christine's hand almost as you would someone blind, Meg the leader and the maternal and Christine the follower and the child, were it not that their personalities—in many ways diametrically opposed to their physical appearance—were so well known around the opera house, and easily read in the subtle shades of their expressions and gestures.

How haughty Christine could have looked in her imperious, regal beauty were it not for the soft luster in her warm dark eyes, the two delicately molded lips always halfway open like a sleeping child's, the lost expression she wore. How insipid Meg could have looked with her full pouty lips, her mass of strawberry blonde hair with the ribbon, her small frame, were it not for the grave keenness in the face, the quick, decided movements of her body, the sharply cut lines of her almond-shaped eyes.

Despite Madame Giry's precise accent and Meg's fair coloring, many around the opera house assumed they probably had a drop or two of foreign blood in them. This did not worry Madame Giry much, since most assumed it was either Spanish or Romani blood.

This so-called exotic air about Meg was combined with what bigoted members of society deemed contrasting traits of frankness and chasteness. She was often quietly thoughtful in manner, while still humming with pent-up energy. Madame Giry felt that Christine with her slow movements and demure ways was a good and calming influence on her daughter, whom Giry likened to a happy but caged lark, content to trill away but wouldn't object if the door to her cage were left open.

Despite their growing beauty, neither Christine nor Meg was very interested in the ballet girls' gossip about men. Meg was sentimental when it came to reading novels or watching operas, but for herself she was not in the least romantic. She saw too many love stories explode backstage at the opera house to hold many fond fantasies of indulging in any of her own, particularly when she considered what sort of life romance led such gentle and naive girls like Elodie to.

As for Christine, there still remained but one shadow of a man she longed for in that way.

She'd long since confided in Meg about Raoul. The story of Christine's one-sided infatuation enthralled Meg just as much as her other tales had.

Shortly after her sixteenth birthday Meg became lead dancer of the corps de ballet, and 1881 saw an increase in her solos, both in the ballets and in silent roles in the opera. Reyer and Lefevre had more a hand in this than Giry. They both noted the young girl's talent and decided another pretty face made prominent on the stage could never hurt ticket sales. Christine, meanwhile, was still understudy in the ballet, only her voice had improved just enough that she was now seriously preparing to audition for the chorus. The thrill that gave the ever-sickly Mamma Valerius was more of a sweet triumph to Christine than any personal milestone.

Therefore both girls were in an optimistic frame of mind when New Year's Eve 1881 approached, and with it preparations for the yearly masked ball. Meg's excitement sprang from her love of anything bright and alive with music, where you could dance to your heart's delight in any array of loud costume. Christine always held out hope that a certain sailor might appear, though she hadn't word from him since he left for the Navy almost seven years past.

Although Meg was usually too eclectic to settle on a particular theme for the ball, whether it be princess, fairy, or animal, she decided that year to dress as a Dresden shepherdess—her mask perched on a small makeshift shepherd's hook. Favoring the color pink, her dress was a frilly explosion of the color, lacy bows embedded along the hem of her skirt.

Christine chose Diana, goddess of the moon and the hunt. Compared to Meg's busy costume, Christine's was sleek and simple, in the Grecian style. She wore a tiara with a silver crescent moon on it, a bow and arrow of the same sparkling color embroidered on her gown. Pauline, the chief costumer for the ballet, suffered her usual numerous breakdowns and fits making sure all her girls were ready in time, frustrated that the fittings were often disturbed by the girls bursting into giddy guffaws, flinging precious material at their co-horts.

Still, the ball began just as everyone fit into their custom-made arrangements. Taking each other's hands, Christine and Meg dived in.

The festive cheer seemed even to thaw Madame Giry a bit, who as usual wore nothing more ornate than a sequined cape over her black gown. She let lax her rigid supervision, as she'd extracted from Erik the promise that he would attend and focus primarily on Meg and her doings each year that she attended the ball.

Meg dipped in and out of dances with jesters, knights, dominoes, tigers, and pirates, unaware that an unseen gloved hand that twirled her once made sure to keep her in his sights.

These eyes peered out of his dull black mask, watching as the small, lacy frame with its radiant curls piled on top of her head in the Dresden style whisper-hissed, "Christine! Over here! I have an idea!"

Christine's cheeks were tinged with excitement and the rush from champagne, just as Meg's were. "Yes? What is it?"

Again that forever reassuring squeeze of the hand. "You'll see!" Meg looked around her to make sure no one was watching. She failed to notice the figure with the eyes and the gloved hand. Then she pulled Christine through and away from the madding crowd, up the stairs, down the hallway, through dark doorways, and then onto the open stage.

The cacophony from the party did not reach them here. Meg pulled Christine center stage.

Christine stared out into the rows and rows of empty seats. This was one area of the theater the partying citizens of Paris were not allowed to debauch with their revelry.

"Meg," Christine said in a mild scolding way, "I don't think we're allowed to be here right now."

A determined chin jutted out at her. "And why not? We're not just ordinary people, you and I, we're artists! We work here, you know! We have every right."

So saying, she primly sat herself at the piano situated upper-right.

"But we've been here plenty of times before. What's so different now?"

"What's so different is I'll wager you've never been on the stage without at least thirty other people up here with you."

"Yes, that's true," Christine admitted after thinking it over.

Smiling merrily and extending her hand to the empty audience, Meg continued, "So go on! Appreciate it! Breathe it in!"

Christine took a deep breath and exhaled, throwing her arms out. Then the two somewhat tipsy girls burst anew into giggles.

Meg thumped out a few bars on the piano. "Now, sing, mademoiselle! Sing!"

Christine burned crimson. "Oh, I don't think so, Meg." Even though her audition for the chorus loomed somewhere in the close future, Christine was still so insecure about her singing she seldom let anyone hear who didn't have to. She only performed privately for Meg and after much coaxing. Meg was a sympathetic audience whose limited knowledge of singing made her a softer critic than most. Still, she had to bite her tongue when she convinced Christine to sing for her a few days after they met, struggling to find encouraging words for such weak and dead trilling.

However, she knew Christine had improved markedly in the past two years, and the various singing instructors didn't quite despair of her so quickly anymore. And thus Meg was now adamant. "Yes, you must sing! It would be a total waste of the opportunity! Here you are on the Paris Opera stage, no one to hear you but me! What are you so afraid of? Come, sing!" She cleared her own throat and steadied her fingers above the keys. "Here, I'll play 'Caro Nome' from Rigoletto. I know it's one of your favorites. Anyway, you know your singing can't be as wretched as my playing." She wrinkled her nose self-deprecatingly. She was in truth a very poor piano player, a fact which bothered the young dancer not at all. She leaned toward Christine, staring at her significantly. "Sing for your Angel of Music! He might be listening tonight."

"But"-Christine protested.

It was too late. Meg began playing the opening bars, clumsily but cheerfully.

Even with the amateurish playing, this was a tune that invariably swept Christine away. Soon she was closing her eyes and swaying there center stage, the faint light from the candles on the piano illuminating her fine bone structure.

She sang.

The combination of the joyous celebration, the promise of the new year, the champagne, Meg's friendly, non-judgmental presence, and the beauty of the song made Christine sing better than Meg had yet heard her.

To be sure, the voice was still too soft, a little flat in some places, a trifle sharp in others. Yet there was a tone there that Meg had detected before but never noticed so marked. It was difficult to describe. It was sweet, pure, and most of all unique. Like bells, but more ethereal, winged.

The absolute sincerity and lilting passion build and build as Christine sang, Meg unconsciously adjusting her playing to fit Christine's soaring voice.

"_Caro nome che il mio cor_

_festi primo palipitar,_

_la delizie dell'amor_

_mi dei sempre rammentar!"_

As Meg listened breathlessly, she felt that her friend with her regal bearing and her beautiful silvery dress was indeed the goddess of the moon. If the moon had a voice, this is most certainly what it would sound like, luminous and misty.

Again, it was not quite a good performance: but it was an extraordinarily touching one, a beautiful one.

She finished the impromptu aria. A quiet moment passed. Christine stood with head leaned back, beautiful brown curls cascading down her shoulders. Her eyes were still closed. Then she smiled embarrassed as Meg clapped behind her, whistling. "Oh, Christine! I've never heard you sound so good!"

She ran up and threw her arms around her pleased friend, kissing her on the cheek. "You'll go places for sure, Christine, if you keep that up."

Christine sighed, suddenly a little morose. "I don't know, Meg. I know my voice can carry a tune well enough for a friend, but for a whole audience?" She glanced dolefully out at the empty seats. "I'm not so sure."

"Oh, nonsense," Meg began, steering Christine away. Once more she commenced explaining to Christine all the usual reasons why she shouldn't give up hope, should simply continue working hard and have a little faith in herself. Christine cast one more wistful look behind her shoulder at the empty stage before disappearing behind the curtains with her friend.

The stage was now empty. The girls returned to the ballroom, just in time to raise a toast in farewell to 1881 and another to ring in 1882.

For the figure sitting unseen in Box Five, who had been witness to Christine's song, nothing would ever be quite the same.

* * *

**A/N: For those curious, here's the song Christine sings: watch?v=nE_eEGgpRxE**

**Also, many thanks to Wild Concerto for the fabulous, in-depth reviews! Wonderful stuff for an author to read.**


	6. Chapter 6

Hours after the celebration ended, close to daylight, Erik sat motionless in his lair.

For the first time since he brought the instrument into his makeshift home fifteen years previously, Erik did not play his pipe organ immediately after arriving back from the world above.

He simply sat on the bench, face bent toward the keys, staring. He breathed in deeply, staring intently at nothing.

Strong, invisible hands had his soul in their clutches, squeezing painfully, exquisitely.

One sound, and one sound alone, resounded in his ears.

Her voice.

The voice of Christine...Christine Daae.

Christine Daae.

Two years. For two years she had lived, breathed, and worked in his opera house, and he'd taken no more notice of her than he did of any other timorous ballet girl clutching at the Giry girl's skirt.

The fool he was, the _fool!_

Of course he'd been aware of her existence. He knew everyone's name and face who entered his domain, and he had a rough idea of her origins. He simmered with self-loathing as he recalled his vague dismissal of her story as that of a poor little rich girl, living off her parents' fame and her patroness's money. He'd thought her uncommonly pretty, but nothing more.

He knew she was an especial favorite of Meg's, who took in lost girls as you would stray animals. Often was the time he'd watch from far off as the two dancers sat together at the corner of the stage or in the dance studio, whispering and giggling. But he'd only been fulfilling his promise to Anahid, barely noticing the girls themselves as he surveyed the area for any leering stagehand or presumptive suitor.

Yet there had been too many errands, too many duties to attend to outside of ensuring Meg's safety to follow the Daae girl to her singing lessons. Tonight was the first time he heard her sing.

Little Meg made life especially difficult for him this evening, weaving in and out of quick dances with multiple partners, disappearing intermittently from his all-seeing gaze.

He was relieved when she dragged Miss Daae to the stage, where the two girls were the only figures he need focus on.

And he'd watched—without warning, completely unprepared—as the extremely pretty girl in the Grecian costume stepped forward and opened her mouth, transforming from a mere girl into an angel in front of his very eyes.

_Angel of Music, _little Giry said.

Angel of Music.

Erik trembled remembering that voice. He'd stiffened the moment the notes soared out of her mouth, untrained, untried, but-

He couldn't...

Her voice...

No, _she-_

She _beckoned _to him. With her song, she called to him. Him alone. _Sweet _was too saccharine a description for it, _clear _ineffective, _pure-_

Yes, pure. The tone was pure.

But more than that, _more._

His was a life spent in literal and figurative darkness. He'd killed and enjoyed it. He'd looked into the eyes of mankind's wickedness and heard their laughter, their searing, unrelenting laughter.

Erik had assumed that by now, that slight but strong instinct in him to protect the small and the gentle (_pretty little songbird, I mended your wing and you flew away_) was dead in him. The minute he saw the lingering fondness in Anahid's eyes die and turn to hate as he threatened her freedom convinced him of this.

Yet that part of his soul, the well of kindness that yearned for solace, returned to the tune of Verdi's light aria.

The hideous blackness and the violence transformed into a beautiful angel with the moon in her crown.

Christine Daae.

He...

He gasped, struggling with the truth of it. The irrational, impossible, but utter truth of it.

He was in love with Christine Daae.

He sighed thinking the words aloud, releasing the pressure squeezing his heart mercilessly.

In love. He was in love with her.

He would live for her. He would die for her.

And he would make her great.

She had much to learn, this girl. He would take that intangible core of her singing, that rang and rang in his ears dearer than bells, and expand it, smooth it, polish it, and show Paris what true, _true _art was.

He rose from the bench and as if for the first time he took in his lair.

There were many changes that must be made. Dust and cobwebs coated the furniture, which needed polishing anyway. Only his coffin bed, situated now in the bedroom he built, was available for those seeking rest. The gondola needed re-painting, and it was beginning to leak.

An angel entering the darkness deserved so much more.

A _bride _deserved so much more.

_His living bride._

A wedding dress. Yes, a wedding dress was also required.

He entered his bedroom and slipped out from behind his pillow a long-abandoned manuscript.

Opening the libretto and placing it on the organ's music rack, he studied the title page.

_Don Juan Triumphant._

He began writing his opera when he first entered the lair. He himself had been full of triumph then, having staked out an empire of his own making to rule over. Of all the skills he mastered, he'd always taken the most pride in his proficiency in music. Living in the opera house was the first time he felt he belonged.

And so his opera had thrived, for a time. Then came the war with Prussia. Erik soon found himself immersed with fortifying the opera walls, the pillars, preparing for rockfalls in his lair when the shells hit. He'd been likewise preoccupied procuring food for the denizens of his opera house, sneaking in provisions to Madame Giry so the ballet rats could eat.

The weary but warm gleam that had entered Anahid's eyes when he presented her with food and clothing let Erik hope for a moment that she no longer cast him aside as a complete scoundrel.

But the war hardened everyone. Erik had previously emassed a tidy sum from various sources over the years, and he spent the majority of it to keep the Opera Populaire running and his kingdom thriving. Once the fighting ended he started pressuring Lefevre for a salary. He turned a deaf ear to the man's desperate pleading.

Erik was brutal and curt, dismissing what he deemed unnecessary personnel in those trying times. And so once more he saw the stern, unforgiving look come into Anahid's eyes. But she should have understood, damnable woman. There was no time for kindness or softness while they rebuilt their lives—and no time for composing, either.

When finally the Prussians left Paris, Erik sat down at his pipe organ again, excited to once more make his song take flight in the pages of his composition.

And nothing came.

Sporadic bursts of melody would sometimes storm from his fingertips, but they were of a disconnected turn, and to his ears crude. Granted, they were masterpieces compared to the dreck performed above on the stage, but not worthy of his life's work.

And then came tonight.

Suddenly wild and untamed refrains drifted through his mind, taking ecstatic shape. All in her voice, coming out of that porcelain-pure face.

The Don Juan saga was a sweet yet painful part of his history. To him, Don Juan was a friend in the library of his childhood, as he huddled behind the divan with Tirso de Molina and Moliere's versions of the tale. He'd flinch as his brother drunkenly stomped into the room, calling for his ugly mutt of a sibling to come out and frighten the dinner guests. And his mother, his mother not far behind, crying hysterically, "Tristan, don't you dare bring him out! I couldn't bear it, I couldn't!"

Her high shrieks and Tristan's harsh laugh reverberated against his young skull, and his eyes would burn into the pages, willing himself not to be found.

_Don Juan would laugh right back, then skewer Tristan with his sword. _

Never before had escapism taken hold so firmly of a young boy. But never before had a young boy needed it so much.

Don Juan was his salvation. Don Juan was how Erik coped with what came later. An identity, a mask to disappear behind. He wasn't a freak who was jeered at and screamed at in the sideshow. He was a handsome libertine who all the women shrieked with lustful joy upon seeing, and the men only sneered at out of jealousy, to challenge him to a duel.

Naser didn't drag him out in front of his court to terrify them with his face. No, the shah was simply brimming with joy that the globe-trotting nobleman deigned to grace his court with his scintillating presence.

The sane half of Erik knew these were idle delusions, but a greater part of him subsumed this imaginary role so completely that his sense of superiority over others, his desire for sensual closeness and physical power dominated him.

He'd begun his opera with all the heat and life's blood he could bring to it, but looking back at even his most inspired moments, Erik knew now that it was missing _soul._

Soul.

Christine Daae was his soul now.

An obsession, a salvation. His very _soul_.

Tentatively placing his quill to the page now, Erik wrote the single most beautiful lines of music he'd yet written:

"_No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy._

_No dreams within her heart but dreams of love!"_

Yes, a woman. If Don Juan is conquered at all, it must be by a woman. As Erik was.

He suddenly plunged into his work again, mismatched eyes filling with tears of happiness that at last, at last he could work again.

Christine, _Christine._

As he wrote at a feverish pace, his mind went back to the times he'd seen the two girls together. He strained his memory, looking for something, anything that would allow him to approach her.

_Angel of Music. _He suddenly stopped with quill mid-air as he thought of that phrase again. Yes, he had heard that before, and not just from tonight.

Ah, yes, he'd stepped behind the Girys' mirror behind the dance bar Anahid installed in her flat. Meg and Christine were stretching on the floor. He gave them a quick glance, satisfied there was nothing male in the room to disturb the young ladies.

What had he heard as he'd walked away into the shadows...?

"A sort of muse from Heaven who gifts artists with genius...something my father used to tell me..."

His heart swelled now at the revelation.

Wasn't that what he was planning for her, his treasure?

Yes.

The Angel of Music.

The Angel of Music, then.

He attacked the pages again, creating a disguise for Don Juan to lure in...Aminta! A pure peasant woman with a heart of gold who grew through love into a stunning seductress. That would serve Christine's talents well. A disguise to lure in the beloved.

Just like the Angel of Music.

He laughed and hugged his arms, choking with joy and madness and love, an all-encompassing love.

Her face in the dim light, more mystical than a spirit's. Her slim body swaying to the music around her, swaying as if in need of strong arms to clasp her, keep her steady. The long river of silken brown curls, the slender neck, the dark sweet eyes.

And that voice.

That voice.

Don Juan, in the end, did not need a bevy of conquests. He just needed his Christine.

The true Angel of Music.

* * *

**A/N: As Wild Concerto points out in the reviews, yes, I did pretty much steal the setting for the last chapter with Meg playing piano for Christine from the Kay novel. As I said, I'm aware of _some _of what happens in the book. So why not steal what I like? Heh heh...guess I've gotta add Kay to my disclaimer now.**

**Thanks again to Wild Concerto for the brilliant review! Awesome and thought-provoking.**


	7. Chapter 7

Several weeks passed.

Meg noticed right away some intense change had transformed her friend. When on a few mornings after New Year's Meg entered Christine's dressing room to see her staring into space with eyes glowing transcendentally, the dancer gasped.

"Christine! You look like you've seen"-

Christine turned to her sharply, her face more animated than Meg had ever seen her. "Seen what, Meg?"

"Well, I don't know exactly. A spirit, maybe?"

She jumped as Christine threw her head back and laughed wildly. For a moment Meg almost feared for her friend's sanity.

Christine jumped from her chair and spun Meg around the room. "A spirit, Meg?" She burst into giggles again. "A spirit!"

Breathless, Meg asked, "What in the world has gotten into you? This isn't like you!"

Christine put a finger to her lips, but her unnaturally bright eyes made the gesture more fervent than playful. "That's a secret," she mock whispered.

"I don't understand!"

Christine flipped Meg's curls. "You will, someday! When I take the stage!" And she laughed again, and twirled once more, this time holding only the skirt of her dressing gown as if curtseying for a waltz, humming "Caro Nome". Meg was confounded.

She was not the only one. Although Christine always projected the image of the dreamer, she was now absent almost to the point of comatose during group gossip in the dance studio. After an anecdote, when the girls would break into peals of laughter, Christine would invariably be seen staring at the ceiling, a serene but eerie look on her face. Then, with a hastily given excuse, she'd take her leave and spend the rest of the evening in her isolated dressing room.

It unsettled her fellow dancers.

Meg would shift uncomfortably as she'd overhear them talk amongst themselves. "What's gotten into Daae? She's even stranger than before!"

Madame Giry, Reyer, and even Lefevre on his visits to the set noticed her odd behavior.

"Christine Daae! Pay attention to your steps, girl!" Giry would command, bringing down with a bang the cane she used to keep time to the music.

"Miss Daae, if it would please you to look at me instead of whatever fascinates you so much up in the rafters, you might just learn where to stand when the chorus comes in," Reyer would snap.

Lefevre would simply raise his eyebrows and bury his beard into his chest as he observed offstage, "What a pity. Such potential from her father wasted."

Meg was worried. Christine had been making such strides toward launching a stable career and carving out a place for herself in the Opera Populaire. Now it appeared she was throwing all that progress away. While it was true Christine had always retreated into her own fantasy world when she could, she'd before retained enough common sense to hold onto as much of the world around her to keep her upright.

Almost completely gone were the times when the two girls would spend the evening talking together, or exploring the corridors of the opera house, sugar in their hands to feed Cesar the horse in his stable. Meg knew she herself was partly to blame, since her own career was on the rise and demanded much of her attention. But when Christine turned down three offers to supper and to rehearse at the Girys' in one week, Meg couldn't help seeking her out. She didn't feel chagrined or hurt, just concerned and more than a little befuddled.

It was with this determination that she headed to Christine's dressing room to find out once and for all what was so incredibly fascinating about the place.

She froze, her hand hovering above the door knob.

The most beautiful singing she'd ever heard came from within.

It was both strong and gentle, passionate and tender, and most of all, ethereal.

Meg was spellbound.

Then she recognized it. That tone, that unique tone she'd heard dozens of times before.

"Christine!" Before she could stop herself she barged into the room.

Christine spun around from where she faced the large wall-mounted mirror, as frightened and abashed as if she'd been caught in a crime.

"Meg!"

They stared at one another—Christine terrified, Meg enraptured.

"Christine, your voice! Was that really you?"

Looking shamed rather than proud, Christine meekly nodded her head.

"Well, of course it was, what a ridiculous question. It's not as if anyone else is here with you!" She didn't notice Christine shudder. Meg grabbed her arms. "I've never heard such singing before! You sound more beautiful than an angel, truly! I'm not joking! Christine...Christine, how...?"

Christine shuffled her feet, her eyes darting to the mirror and then back to Meg again.

"I have a new tutor. I was just practicing my scales for my next lesson."

"I suppose that explains it. But who is it? Signor Feretti? No, you've already seen him quite a few times. Madame Lecours...? No, you saw her a couple months ago. Who-"

"I can't tell you, Meg," Christine said very quickly. At her friend's baffled expression, Christine continued. "It's...it's part of our arrangement. I can't tell you now."

"But how strange," Meg couldn't help exclaim.

That unworldly glow was back in Christine's eyes. "Yes, very strange indeed..." she said in a low voice, as if to herself.

She did not speak again, merely turned back to the mirror.

Meg looked on, her concern growing. What sort of singing teacher instructs pupils in secret? Seemed rather suspicious. Meg couldn't help feeling protective of Christine, and often found excuses afterward to ask how she was faring, and was a little satisfied as the young woman's elation continued apparently undisturbed. If whoever this teacher was had any sort of negative design on her, certainly Christine wouldn't be so happy.

And besides, any tutor who could teach Christine—or anyone—to sing like _that _must obviously know what they're doing.

So Meg decided that the circumstance, though strange, did not require any interference—yet. Still, she kept a close eye on Christine. When Christine was around, that is.

Which she wasn't much, even less than before. She kept her evenings short, and her periodic socializing exclusively with Meg. When Christine wasn't required onstage or in the studio, Meg learned that she was without exception in that large, lonely dressing room.

* * *

"Angel?"

"_Yes, my child?"_

"I think I know why else you have come to me."

"_Oh?"_

"Yes...it isn't just to teach me to sing."

"_No?"_

"No. I...I believe you have come also...to bring me love."

….

"Angel?"

….

"Angel? Oh, please, answer me! Tell me I haven't offended you!"

"_...No, no. You could never offend me, my child. I was only impressed with your ingenuity. I have indeed come...for that, also. But it must wait, for the time being. Until after your debut."_

"I understand. I don't mind. I've waited so long already."

"_For love?"_

"Yes, for him."

"_For him, child? You mean you have waited to meet the man who will bring you love?"_

"Now, Angel, you mustn't tease me. You know what I mean."

"_**And you mustn't presume too much, Christine Daae. Do not talk in riddles. Speak plainly."**_

"I am sorry, Angel. So very sorry. Please forgive my thoughtless words."

"_You are forgiven. But tell me, now. The Angel sees much but not always all. What do you mean, you've been waiting for him?"_

"Surely...surely my father must have told you about Raoul?"

"_...R...Raoul?"_

"Yes, Angel. Raoul le Vicomte de Chagny. We met when I was a child and he was a few years older. I...I loved him very much back then, Angel. And I think I must still, for my heart beats only for him when I am not consumed by your music. Tell me: is it him whose love you will bring me? Is it?"

….

….

….

"Angel?"

…..

"Angel, are you still there?"

…..

"Angel, please, I implore you, forget that I talked out of turn earlier. Speak to me. Speak to me. Angel!"

….

"Angel!"

….

"ANGEL!"

* * *

Meg was heading toward the storage room to root through old costumes for Pauline when she heard the anguished sobbing from far down the corridor. With her dancer's speed she flew to Christine's door and swung it open.

Christine was pounding the mirror with her fists. "Speak to me, speak to me," was her wailing cry.

Meg hushed her and gently pulled her fists away from the glass, fearful of Christine cutting herself were it to break. Although Christine had been pleading with whoever it was to speak, she herself said nothing as Meg eased her away from the mirror. She collapsed to her knees and wordlessly buried her head in Meg's lap, shuddering with cries, Meg's hand stroking her hair.

* * *

Lajos the ratcatcher had worked longer than anyone else at the opera house, longer even than Joseph Buquet. He was there before the remodeling, and knew the routes through the cellars better than he knew his name, his identity. He lived and breathed the underground almost as much as the inhabitant who dwelled even lower.

The ratcatcher's deep voice as he rounded his rats up with his lantern still rang out clearly, though the same clarity could not be said of his mind.

He mumbled now to himself, stooped over as he led the herd of rodents away with his lantern. He paused suddenly. He heard from a floor below unearthly cries of fury, followed by crashing objects.

He shook his head, cackling good-naturedly in the dark. "Well, doesn't that beat all, gentlemen?" He addressed the rats in his booming voice. "Doesn't that beat all..." And his eyes quivered and grew dim. He mumbled once more into his chest.

Though his feet shuffled, he still kept up with the group scurrying around him.

* * *

The next two days found Christine at the lowest Meg had yet seen her. She refused to speak of what happened in her dressing room when Meg found her hysterical.

Still, it was obvious to everyone that now some new drastic change occurred in the girl. Her brown eyes were dull and lifeless, and her face wore the bleary look of one who'd cried until there was nothing left in her.

Meg tried to respect Christine's request for privacy, but the little dancer couldn't help but lay one gentle hand over Christine's during rehearsal as they sat waiting for their turn backstage.

"Christine," Meg whispered, "Please...won't you tell me what's wrong?"

Christine swallowed and shook her head. "No."

"But you might feel better if you"-

"I said _no_," Christine snapped. She pulled her hand away fiercely. Then she sped off toward her dressing room, pushing her way through surprised stagehands and dancers.

Fearing that Christine's exit during rehearsal would spell doom for her career, Meg leapt up to pursue her but was stopped by her mother. "Let her go," Madame Giry said firmly.

The ballet mistress's black eyes swam pensively after Christine's departing form. She had a feeling...but no, why should Erik bother about one understudy in the ballet?

But still, she couldn't shake her feeling.

Meg, meanwhile, was more puzzled than hurt by Christine's anger. She knew her friend had a temper, usually dormant, but one that could be stirred if pushed far enough. But that was only under extreme duress—and Meg was self-possessed enough to know she herself had not been cause enough for her ire. What on earth could be tearing her apart like this?

* * *

"_Child...my dear, sweet child..."_

"A...Angel?"

"_You mustn't cry, my dear. You know it causes me pain. Ah, now you're laughing! That is an improvement, though I still see some tears running down your pale cheeks."_

"They're tears of joy, my Angel! Tears of joy! Oh, I was so afraid, Angel! So afraid you'd"-

"_Left you forever?"_

"Yes."

"_No, my sweet girl. I won't leave you alone in this cesspool."_

"But you were..._angry _with me, master."

"_Not angry, Christine. Just disappointed. You see, I thought you'd understood."_

"Understood...understood what?"

"_That the love you spoke of, that you say you've yearned for, should not be of this earth, not come from some crude mortal. No, dearest Christine, you are far too pure for any man of this earth."_

"Then...what love _is _there for me?"

"_Ah, that you shall see, my dove. Once you've made your true debut, I—and I alone—will reveal myself to you and show you a world of love, made just for you. A palace far, far away from this prison you call earthly life."_

"But...Raoul"-

"_**You must never speak of the vicomte again. **He is not for you, my child. Come now, don't look so heartbroken. Someday you shall look back and realize what a...what a passing whim your passion for the boy was."_

"But"-

"_**You must never see the boy again, Christine. Or I truly shall fly away, for that will mean you have rejected your art, your genius. You do not want that, do you?**"_

"...No, master."

"_Such a sweet, obedient child you are. How desperately you need my guidance. I have been neglectful. I must be stricter with you, Christine. From now on..."_

* * *

That evening after rehearsal, Meg found Christine waiting outside the door to the Giry home.

Meg was surprised, not from Christine's presence, but from the change in her countenance. It was a strange mixture of her ecstasy from before the episode in her dressing room and her doleful resignation after.

Still, the small, sad smile on Christine's face was genuine.

"Meg," she said softly, "Oh Meg, can you ever forgive my treatment of you today?" She clutched her friend's hands urgently.

Meg gifted her with a grin of her own. "Why, of course, you goose! Don't mention it at all." In truth, Meg's life with stern Madame Giry as her mother and tempestuous Reyer as her director inured her to harsh criticism and left her usually unfazed by others' outbursts. True, she'd been taken aback by someone typically docile like Christine behaving thus, but she'd felt a general surprise more than she had taken any personal offense.

"You seem a little bit better," Meg observed.

Christine blushed to the roots of her hair, looking down. "Yes, I am feeling more like myself again."

A moment of silence passed.

"I can understand if you still don't want to talk about it," Meg said finally. "Just please remember that I'm always here if you need me."

Christine looked up at her, and Meg's heart bled at the open look of vulnerability and gratitude in her wide yes. "You are so good to me, Meg. It...I...can't go into any detail, only...only I had a small disagreement with my singing teacher. That's all. We've made up."

"Oh." Meg tried to carefully frame her next words. "And I gather you still can't tell me who...?"

"I will soon, Meg. After he says I'm ready to make my debut."

"Surely you're ready now, Christine! Your voice is better than anyone's here!"

"Thank you, Meg. But my master knows best." Meg couldn't help but notice there was a hint—just a shadow of something, really—of...maybe not doubt, but..._uncertainty _in Christine's words.

"We'll see, Christine. Who knows, you might just surprise _him _yet!" Meg's expression was mischievous.

For the first time in days, Meg heard Christine laugh.

Yet Meg continued to worry, even as they embraced. Christine called the crisis a "small disagreement", yet at the time she'd acted as thought it were a lover's rift. Meg couldn't believe Christine would involve herself that way with a tutor, but surely this wasn't a healthy way to work. But then again, what wonders this was doing for her voice!

Meanwhile, Christine couldn't help but think of her Angel's words.

She'd lived since childhood with the dream of both singing majestically to make her father proud and of winning Raoul's heart. Both desires took up equal space within her. But now it seemed that to gain one was to lose the other.

Christine tried, but she couldn't—she _couldn't _believe in her deepest heart that Raoul was common, crude, and unworthy of her. But to doubt that was to doubt her Angel's words. And to doubt her Angel...

The unquestioning elation that filled her soul when the Angel entered her life now, for the first time, receded just the tiniest amount—and was replaced with fear.

* * *

**A/N: Signor Feretti and the name Lecours comes from the 1943 _Phantom of the Opera, _and Lajos from the 1983 version. I'm all over the board here!**


	8. Chapter 8

The popular misconception is that a man obsessively in love with a woman never looks at another. This is usually incorrect. There may be none of the mad fondness associated with his thoughts of the beloved, but unconsciously or not, a man will still find himself drawn in some small way to a passing pretty face.

It does not diminish the obsession at all. The man will simply reason to himself that he's following nature, and only in brief spurts of thought, where no harm can be done.

Erik was not even cognizant of the fact he noticed Meg's dancing in _Hannibal. _She simply flitted around the hazy edges of his subconscious as he thought of other matters.

First, he thought of the production at hand. Chalumeau's _Hannibal _was a great white elephant of an affair, an inelegant spectacle popular with the troglodytes who sat drooling in his seats these days. Still, _Hannibal_ had the advantage of containing a few pleasing arias—frankly, that's all the piece was good for really, a vehicle for some likeable songs. "Think of Me" in particular would serve as a perfect showcase for-

Ah, but he was getting ahead of himself.

Next there was the matter of Lefevre to mull over. His retirement was imminent. The scrap metal dealers would soon take over. Nominally speaking, of course.

In truth, Erik felt a stab of sympathy for the broken Lefevre. Therefore, it did not require much convincing before he acquiesced to Giry's request on Lefevre's behalf. After all, Erik had promised the man his freedom once he'd amassed enough savings for retirement, and it would have been unnecessarily cruel to torment him further.

But the new managers...Erik must decide what to do with them. He was not nearly as young and impulsive as the nineteen-year-old who'd shamelessly revealed his identity to Lefevre some fifteen years earlier. He was cleverer now, subtler. Everything must be communicated through letter, through Madame Giry, and the well-placed booming command from the rafters if need be. A far more creative way to terrify the new gentlemen into allegiance than his old friend, frank extortion.

Finally, he thought of his Christine, always his Christine.

For the most important, the most _vital _reason he allowed _Hannibal _to play at his opera house was that it was time now for Christine's debut. "Think of Me" would suit her voice marvelously, and the character of Elissa afforded a capable actress a few moments of genuine depth.

He meditated on Christine, imagining her wild success, _his _triumph. He pictured himself watching her gliding gracefully across the stage, commanding the theater not only with her ecstatic voice, but with her beauty, her charm. He saw the tender smile, the riotous brown curls gleaming in the footlights. He saw the eyes wide with wonder at the applause given only to her, but which belonged to him, really. Everything she was belonged to him. The audience will love her, adore her, worship her—but only from afar, only with their eyes. He alone would claim her, triumph and all. The specter of the vicomte she mentioned no longer tortured him so often, and each day he felt her abandon that precious gift—her soul—into his appreciative hands, bit by bit.

He thought of this and more, all while he felt Meg Giry's dancing.

As he sat hidden in Box Five, planning, Meg grew more prominent in the ensemble. Today was the first dress rehearsal, and the slavegirl outfits were as risque as Madame Giry would allow. Meg had seldom played such an overtly sexual character before. What surprised the staff and dismayed her mother was how easily the innocent girl slipped into this seductive character. Her movements were imbued with a serpentine grace (Cecile, meanwhile, who was also directed to dance flirtatiously, protested moodily. She doubted many true slavegirls slinked about so wantonly, given their doleful circumstances).

As Meg seduced the invisible audience, twirling and leaping, Erik was reminded—without realizing it—of another dancer in another life.

He was twelve years old, shortly before Anahid entered his sphere. He was hidden behind the curtain covering his cage, just before his act. The circus master threatened a severe beating were the boy to reveal himself until given his cue, so Erik was usually careful not to make a sound, not to take a peek.

However, on this night, he found himself spellbound by the rhythmic jangling of a tambourine, the hypnotic strumming of a Flamenco guitar just outside his cage.

He lifted just enough of the curtain so that one eye could gaze out unseen.

The audience was hushed, watching the Romani girl dance.

She was not the prettiest girl Erik had ever seen. She possessed marvelous coloring, though: luxurious dark brown hair, misty hazel eyes, bronze skin. But it was the confident, teasing way she delicately moved that really captured the young Erik's attention.

Her hips rotated in a manner Erik never dreamed possible of any creature outside of a trained cobra. She revealed her shapely strong legs with each twirl of her flame-colored skirt.

Erik had read much about women and their ability to enthrall through Don Juan, Shakespeare, Byron, and the like. But tonight was the first time he truly _felt _the significance a woman's form could take in a man's consciousness.

Something stirred in him. Unknown and prickly sensations crawled up his neck and spine, heating his deformed cheeks. A violent but pleasing pressure started to build in the pit of his stomach.

He did not think of the similar struggles this dancing girl might share with him, that she too might be forced to present her culture, her gifts, for the gawking of a crowd lusting for pageantry. He fell into the trap he'd always considered himself superior to, that of the common man's infatuation with surface temptation.

As Erik sat in his opera box, contemplating overdone operas, departing and incoming managers, and always, always Christine, he felt that same crawling sensation again. Meg and the dancer of his youth hovered into one image at the corner of his vision, ignored but ingrained in him. The whirling form—part rustic Bohemian girl, part sprite-like ballerina-simmered in that pit in his stomach, even as his mind rejected them.

When he returned to his lair that evening, he created the character of a Romani girl in _Don Juan. _It was not a large role, but one that would feature intermittently through various scenes. She'd enjoy a few trysts with Don Juan and maybe dance the z_ambra_ to entertain the audience as they waited for Christine to change costumes.

Without any particular thought put into the decision, he wrote "Meg Giry" by the character in the cast list.

Then he wrote two more arias for Christine and tweaked a few notes in their duet, "Past the Point of No Return."

As he settled into his coffin bed, he thought of the varnish needed for the new bed just outside, in his throne room. Golden, huge, and inlaid with crystals, it took the shape of an elegant gondola. He imagined Christine lying there, exhausted from singing more exquisitely than she ever could onstage. Her lips parted, her eyes half-open and full of glory, staring at him, at him, at him.

But it was the phantom of a dancing Romani he dreamed of, with bright thick curls the color of the sun just before it descends into the horizon in the evening.

* * *

**A/N: A bit short, I know, but I feel it's important, nonetheless. A peek into the madhouse that is Erik's rollicking brain.**


	9. Chapter 9

When you finally achieve your established goals, you are seldom afforded the opportunity to stand at the threshold of your dreams and breathe in the triumph. The rush and whirl of realized ambition leaves you too breathless to appreciate what you've earned.

The same could be said now of Gilles Andre and Richard Firmin as Lefevre whisked them through their tour of the Opera Populaire that fateful June of 1882.

This was their second visit to the opera house, they having signed the paperwork in the managerial offices the previous day. Now they would see the theater itself and its inhabitants.

Both were swaddled in their finest coats, top hats, and walking sticks. Andre with his fly-away gray hair and mustache gave the impression of an alert squirrel, with a bit more dignity and intelligence. Balding and upright, Firmin looked like a maitre-d', proud but eager to please.

Andre in particular would have enjoyed a moment to soak in the atmosphere. Of the two, he was the one most appreciative of art; Firmin was there for the luxuries that in his naivete he believed came with an artistic lifestyle. Andre was the one who suggested managing the opera house after the partners compiled enough savings to move on from the scrap metal business.

They'd been out of place there, considered pompous dandies who would rather don velvet smoking jackets and sip champagne than deal personally with the "rag and bone" business they'd found themselves in charge of.

Firmin and Andre met briefly in school, but it was only later when they were individually looking for loftier careers after claiming their inheritance that they chanced into each other's lives once more. They agreed to enter into business together. They bonded over their status as unfortunate members of the _nouve riche, _their inelegant fathers having built up worthy inheritances for their sons through music publishing (Andre) and furniture reproduction (Firmin).

The two men worked various odd jobs at their family businesses for some ten years before their fathers passed. They picked up their inheritance and seized the most available and accessible business venture to go into together: the scrap metal trade. From there, they worked and strove toward nothing solid, only craving the sort of careers their refined temperaments yearned for.

The Paris Opera House it was, as luck would have it. News of Lefevre's retirement reached them just after they sold their factory.

Lefevre greeted them this morning more relaxed and contented than he had felt in years. He would be in Switzerland soon. This would all be over.

He was friendly but brisk with the gentlemen, desiring to get the tour out of the way as quickly as possible. Nothing is more agonizing when undergoing an ordeal than the moments just before it is finally over.

After exchanging their greetings and charging happily down the corridor, the men were greeted by an usher who opened the door to the theater. All at once an explosion of music and bright spectacle assaulted their eyes and ears.

The new managers at last let themselves shiver and rejoice inwardly. They had indeed arrived.

Ubaldo Piangi stood there in all his resplendent glory amongst the extras and Her – La Carlotta.

Andre had to bite his lips to hold back the almost girlish giggle of excitement. Firmin stood with mouth agape as he took in the scenery.

"This way, gentleman," Lefevre said breezily, as if leading them through an average office setting. They made their way down the rows of seats to the stage.

A bookish-looking man with a peeved expression had interrupted the proceedings, directing Piangi.

"Rome...Rome..." the great tenor repeated to himself, lost in concentration. Piangi was a large, unassuming dumpling of a man when not in character. Born Paolo Barbieri to a locksmith father and a saloon singer mother of mixed Sicilian and Moroccan blood, the young Italian followed in his mother's footsteps to take the stage. In the process, he shed his name which translated to "small barber-surgeon" and replaced it with "Ubaldo Piangi" – "bold tears."

An equal mixture of pomposity, true talent, opulence, and a lingering earnest kindness, Piangi felt no shame he still struggled with French. "Is difficult for me," he explained to Reyer lightly, continuing to practice the proper pronunciation of "Rome".

It made a rather comical sight: his hugeness and his garish costume—war helmet, emerald green cape, bronze shield, and rainbow smear of makeup – as he paced in a circle, forehead creased, repeating "Rome".

Reyer interrupted him. "Once again, then, if you please, Signor: 'Sad to return...'"

At this moment Lefevre and the new managers finally arrived at the stage. "This way, gentlemen, this way," Lefevre said. "Rehearsals, as you see, are under way for a new gala production of Chalumeau's _Hannibal."_

Once more, giddiness seized Andre. His appreciation of grand opera was as shallow as Erik's was deep. _Hannibal _was one of his old favorites.

Firmin, meanwhile, admired the swirling emerald and gold patterns in the costumes of Piangi and the extras crowding the stage. He was a little mystified by the humungous backdrop, consisting of two golden statues with cow heads standing against the exotic Carthage locale.

He only had time to dismiss this as "artistic business" when Lefevre attempted to make their introductions to the bedlam onstage. "Ladies and gentlemen, some of you may already perhaps have met M. Andre and M. Firmin" –

They were just bowing when Reyer testily cut in. "I'm sorry, M. Lefevre, we _are _rehearsing. If you wouldn't mind waiting a moment?" So secure now was Reyer in his position that over the years, the awe and reverential attitude he'd before given his employer faded with the sense of his own importance. He'd already turned back to Piangi, continuing to instruct him.

Lefevre explained, "M. Reyer, our chief repetieur. Rather a tyrant, I'm afraid."

The managers had little time to feel affronted as they were swept up again in the rehearsal, which started where Piangi left off.

They found themselves suddenly swarmed by dancers. The slavegirls were dancing in tribute to the great warrior, keeping time by the whip the tall stern slavemaster struck at their feet. As the young ladies dove in and out between the men, trying to dodge them, the managers found it rather difficult to concentrate on what Lefevre was saying.

He was motioning to Piangi. "Signor Piangi, our principal tenor. He does play so well opposite La Carlotta." Almost by rote, Lefevre said this with a hint of innuendo in his voice. Part of the draw of the two singers was their well-known love affair, which Lefevre always tried—subtly, in his mind—to capitalize on.

Madame Giry banged her cane irritated. "Gentlemen, please! If you would kindly move to one side?"

"My apologies, Madame Giry," Lefevre said, steering his companions slightly more to the right. He nodded toward the severe-looking lady. "Madame Giry, our ballet mistress." He leaned in to Firmin, as the theater-infatuated Andre was at the moment too distracted watching the dancers. "I don't mind confessing, M. Firmin, I shan't be sorry to be rid of the whole blessed business." Instead of finding an ally in each other, over the years Lefevre and Giry often clashed. Their methods of coping with Erik differed too much – Lefevre, the one straining desperately against his leash, and Giry, the wiser one who knew it best to placate him. Although they respected one another, there was little love lost.

Firmin frowned. "I keep asking you, monsieur, why exactly _are_ you retiring?"

Whenever this question was asked, Lefevre paled a little, though he kept his expression even. He pointed to where Andre's gaze was directed. "We take a particular pride here in the excellence of our ballets."

Among the dancers, a dazzling girl with fire-kissed blonde hair caught their attention. She danced with authority, with spark. She possessed a playful yet dangerous sensuality in her expression. So immersed in her dance was she that she spun recklessly close to the men watching, her streaming red, green, and gold striped skirt just brushing them.

Andre shivered. "Who's that girl, Lefevre?"

"Her? Meg Giry, Madame Giry's daughter. The lead dancer of our corps de ballet. Promising dancer, M. Andre, most promising. Believe me, Madame Giry is not the doting type of parent who would advance her career regardless of whether or not she has talent. Miss Giry has definitely earned her place here."

As she held their attention even in the middle of La Sorelli and the Slavemaster's passionate contortions, the new managers could not help but agree with Lefevre's assessment.

The rhythm of the dance was thrown off almost entirely when a tall, slim young woman suddenly leaped confusedly into the ballet. Compared to the dainty and smooth movements of the dancers around her, this girl's clumsy dancing made her look like a duck flying blindly into a herd of swans, even if the girl herself was lovely and graceful in her looks.

Giry thumped her cane again. "You! Christine Daae! Concentrate, girl!"

Panting, Christine at last fell in step with her partner, Meg. "Christine, what's the matter," Meg whispered anxiously through her teeth.

Meg was secretly flummoxed as anyone that Christine of all the understudies was selected to fill in for Sonya today as the second lead slavegirl (as Sonya had come down quite suddenly with a nasty headache and upset stomach). However, Christine had confided in Meg that her tutor proclaimed _Hannibal _was to be the setting of her true debut. Therefore, Meg was sure this placement was a step in the right direction. It was a chance to show the managers how professional Christine could be in a prominent role, even if it was in the ballet, not the chorus.

Yet here she was, fifteen minutes late, face white as a sheet, and eyes wide as dinner plates. And in front of the new managers, too!

Meg bit her bottom lip in worry before pulling the sensual mask on once again, as if by magic.

Meanwhile, these very managers observed Christine. "Daae? Curious name," Firmin noted.

"Swedish," Lefevre replied by way of explanation.

"Any relation to the violinist?" Andre put in quickly, eager to show off his theatrical knowledge.

"His daughter, I believe." Lefevre shook his head carelessly. "Always has her head in the clouds, I'm afraid. Although she is unique in that she dances _and _sings. She also understudies in the chorus. From what I understand, her singing is a bit better than her dancing, thankfully. Ah! Speaking of which, the chorus is starting again. You might want to stand back, gentlemen."

They did, gasping and chuckling. From seemingly nowhere a large, mechanical elephant decked in a costume just as ornate as the opera's stars - helmet on its head and exotic carpets beneath a large golden saddle – rolled center stage.

As the chorus rang out triumphantly, Piangi was lifted with great struggle atop the monstrosity. The three men watching held their breath as the rotund tenor wobbled uncertainly for a bit, before finding his balance.

Their ears practically bled as the chorus finished.

_The trumpeting elephants sound –_

_Hear Romans now, and tremble!_

_Hark to their step on the ground –_

_hear the drums!_

_Hannibal comes!_

Meg and Christine knelt gracefully at the feet of the elephant, raising their arms, heads back.

A moment of stillness and quiet passed. They were leaving room for wild applause. The only clapping came from Lefevre.

As he spoke, Piangi made his way off the elephant. The beast was turned around, revealing two stagehands operating from within, merrily swinging bottles back and forth. They somehow managed to steer the pachyderm offstage.

"Ladies and gentlemen – Madame Giry, thank you"- Giry grimaced at the interruption to her remonstrance with the tardy Christine. "May I have your attention, please? As you know, for some weeks there have been rumors of my imminent retirement. I can tell you that these were all true" – with practiced humility, he broke off to close his eyes and smile in acknowledgment at the perfunctory murmurings of regret from some of the more conscientious cast members. "It is my pleasure to introduce to you the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire, M. Richard Firmin and M. Gilles Andre."

The same conscientious cast members graced them with a smattering of applause as Firmin and Andre quickly put on their own practiced smiles, bowing here and there to no one in particular.

A soft cough and a rush of presence overtook them.

Lefevre turned to the source and cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, Signora Carlotta Guidicelli, our leading soprano for five seasons now."

Andre beamed foolishly and Firmin, sensing instinctively a powerful being, bowed once more.

Sitting on a chair in the corner, surrounded by a maid, a costumer, and some small breed of dog that looked a cross between a lamb and a sentient pillow, was Carlotta. She was just as bright, glittering, and ostentatious as anyone could have imagined or wanted her. She encapsulated the majority of the drama and the histrionics of the Opera Populaire; in just five years she'd caused more mayhem than Meg remembered anyone else had in her childhood.

La Carlotta turned artifice into an artform. Born to a courtesan in Florence without ever knowing her father, Cara grew up quickly and surrounded by love in spite of her fatherless state. Her glorious mother, who delicately adopted the title of "widow", with her rouged cheeks, towering height, and musical laugh assured the young girl she was meant for something very fine one day, surely.

As Carlotta grew, the many rich and so very kind gentlemen who came to pay compliments to her mother soon turned the compliments to her. When she was eleven she sat on one of their knees, blushing uncomfortably as he made her twirl his curled black mustache. In a light, sweet voice that contrasted with the lust burning in his eyes as he gazed at the daughter, he mentioned to Carlotta's mother that he happened to be well-acquainted with a few wonderful singing instructors who could make something of Carlotta's naturally clear and resounding voice.

Her mother watched the lascivious glances the man gave her young daughter, the way he stroked her hair. She silently thought that yes, it might be best to expose Cara to a different sort of life, a different sort of future.

Before her first lesson, Carlotta's brilliant and glimmering mother, weighted down by furs and French perfume, bent down to pinch her cheeks till they were pink. She said, "My child, it is better to be charming than to be good. You'll see one day. Get their attention, and keep it." She wanted better for her child, but she still knew a woman in the world had to use her..._natural _attributes to get by, even in a so-called respectable trade.

Thus were the unfortunately narrow but - from her experience - accurate views Carlotta's mother held, gathered from her own personal highs and lows.

Dipping her eyelids and swaying back and forth to the music, Carlotta found as years went by that it was indeed better to be charming than good with her music instructors. These charmed instructors secured her concerts at rich peoples' drawing-rooms. And charming these rich husbands and fathers secured her extravagant suites in the center of town.

And all it took was one party for her to happen to charm the owner of the Florence Opera House.

She made her debut as an understudy at age seventeen. By eighteen, she was second lead soprano. By twenty, she was the prima donna. For it was just as important to be clever as it was to be charming – and swiping a newly-wedded patron's glove and placing it in the diva's dressing room just before a reporter from a popular newspaper came to interview her secured that diva's dismissal.

Carlotta did not stop to think of any moral repercussions. She was not heartless. She'd simply grown up listening to her mother and her mother's beautiful doting friends reminisce shudderingly of their previous lives in squalor and how anything – _anything _– was better than returning to the dirt, the hunger, the dying younger siblings. A man can escape through the military, through business. A woman must trust to charm. Always charm and ambition and cleverness.

Carlotta's voice was a good instrument, clear and powerful, but it lacked grace. She never missed it.

However, that's not to say she did not work hard for her career. She was a close observer and learned quickly which musical notes and keys best fit her voice, and how to situate herself onstage so that she could be always visible even when the narrative focus was not on her. Her presence was astounding.

When Ubaldo Piangi joined the Florence Opera House, he was already famous, having left Italy after his initial spurt of acclaim to give touring performances in Vienna and Zurich. He returned to his home country twenty pounds heavier and with a wealthy stick of a wife he barely spoke to. He was ten years Carlotta's senior and already balding a little. All the pretty chorines fawned lovingly over him.

All except for his leading lady. She was aloof and never spoke to him outside of performances. She would turn away and sigh, staring up at the ceiling as though wishing she were elsewhere.

He thought her terribly haughty. He disliked her icy manners, the way she barked commands at the staff.

He would like just once to look into her eyes when they weren't singing together.

One evening after rehearsal, he fell asleep in his dressing room, and woke long after most of the company had gone away. As he walked past the dressing rooms, he paused as he heard what he thought was a little girl crying.

He frowned. The sound was coming from La Carlotta's dressing room.

The door was open a crack.

He couldn't help but nudge it open a bit further.

She was at her vanity, convulsing with sobs. A telegram was crumpled in her hands.

"La Carlotta...?" He asked hesitantly.

She gazed up at him.

La Carlotta not only turned art to artifice, she turned beauty to artifice as well. While she'd inherited her mother's tall curvacious form, her face was a little more coarse and common, though still roughly attractive. To make it more genteel, Carlotta rouged it as her mother taught her, reddened her lips, and lined her eyes with dark blue to make them more mysterious. She touched up her dirty blonde hair with burgundy highlights.

As she gazed now at Piangi, however, the mascara trailed down her powdered cheeks, some of her bright vermilion curls stuck to her wet face.

She would have looked ridiculous were it not for the childlike sorrow pouring out of her eyes. She helplessly held up the telegram to Ubaldo. "Mama!" She said plaintively.

Piangi took up the telegram from her aunt and read, YOUR POOR MOTHER PASSED THIS EVENING LOVE AND KISSES DEAR VALENTINA WOULD HAVE WISHED YOU TO STAY STRONG.

He looked back down to Carlotta. "Mama," she repeated.

Piangi fell upon her, taking her in his arms as he stroked her hair, kissing her all over her face. "Little girl, little girl...Cara, Cara!" She sobbed in his arms for hours.

They were inseparable from then on.

Risking scandal and career ruin, Piangi separated from his wife and left with his Cara to Paris – where they and their scandal were welcomed with open, eagerly curious arms.

Carlotta's flair for the melodramatic and her unapologetic command of the stage was a foreign wonder to the more delicate aesthetic of the French. She was immensely popular.

She was detested by Erik.

To him, La Carlotta represented everything wrong with modern opera. Her voice, though powerful and technically impressive, was strident instead of passionate, mawkish instead of sincere, and her acting could hardly be called acting – an obvious scream when she meant to convey anger, a laughably deliberate vibrato when she meant to convey heartbreak. Many critics noticed this too, but were silenced often by editors who remembered the times La Carlotta would flash her dazzling smile at them at dinner parties, murmuring whispered promises that, though they never seemed to come to fruition, remained in their memory.

What neither Erik nor her critics understood was that the public did not flock to hear Carlotta's voice. What they came for was to see _her—_to see her hold her scandalous head high, to flourish her movements wildly, to entertain them not with her art but with her personality.

Any real talent she possessed may now have faded, her once charming excessives onstage now more mannered and monotonous, but the power of her personality—that she cultivated into a legend—was the sort to bring audiences to her naturally. It was ironically the sort of temperament that goes on indefinitely, long after the light in real genius burns out.

Carlotta smiled now as a Madonna does to her devotees as Andre rushed forward, taking her hand almost slavishly. "Of course, of course! I have experienced all your greatest roles, Signora."

"And Signor Ubaldo Piangi," Lefevre said, gesturing to the man.

Firmin acknowledged him, but Andre continued addressing Carlotta. This offended Piangi not at all – who wouldn't fawn all over his Cara? Instead of a look of offense, a gleam of fond pride entered his eyes as Andre solicited a performance of "Think of Me" from her. "I wonder, Signora, if, as a personal favor, you would oblige us with a private rendition?" He turned annoyed to the director he was already not terribly fond of and questioned briskly, "Unless, of course, M. Reyer objects?"

Carlotta laughed in a practiced flirtatious way. "My manager commands...Monsieur?"

Slipping easily into the role he'd adapted himself to since Carlotta's arrival, Reyer said with surface reverence, "My _diva _commands. Will two bars be sufficient introduction?"

"Two bars will be sufficient," Firmin hurried to contribute, anxious those present should not think him less knowledgeable in the arts than Andre.

Reyer turned to Carlotta. "Signora?"

Carlotta inclined her head. "Maestro."

"Think of Me", though lovely, was a song written with the express purpose to sell sheet music, not to fit the plot or overall tone of the opera it came from. Compared to the more grandiose music in _Hannibal, _"Think of Me" was uncharacteristically gentle, contemporary.

Not as Carlotta sang it, however. Of her many gifts, subtlety was not in her range. Everything she did she must do with her whole personality, with her whole repertoire of soaring, towering notes.

She stood and swanned her arms out elegantly. She sang the somewhat wistful and softly romantic lines as though she were atop her steed galloping toward Valhalla.

"_Think of me,_

_think of me fondly, _

_when we've said goodbye!_

_Remember me once in a while –_

_Please promise me you'll try!_

_When you find that once again you long_

_to take your heart"-_

Meg and a few keen-eyed girls shrieked the moment the backdrop started to give, allowing Carlotta enough time to just get out of the way before it plummeted in a heap to the stage.

Pandemonium struck all around Andre and Firmin. Varied shouts of "the Phantom is at it again", "the Ghost is with us," "he's here," rose up from singer, dancer, and stagehand alike.

Piangi furiously took control, rushing to Carlotta, who was shaking and gasping. "You idiots," Piangi cried to no one in particular, taking her in his arms. "Cara! Cara! Are you hurt," he asked in Italian.

Lefevre called wrathfully for Buquet. "Get that man down here!" He turned agitated to Firmin and Andre. "Chief of the flies. Old drunkard. He's responsible for this."

A few stagehands hurriedly raised the backdrop again, revealing Buquet as he stood ominously in the rafters. He held a length of rope, eerily reminiscent of a noose.

Meg shivered, remembering her mother's words. _Punjab lasso._

Joseph Buquet was a tall, stocky man, his white hair and stubble blending into his ghastly pale face. The only color was in his nose, which reddened with each swig of drink he took. He swayed now on his feet. He was practically a laughing-stock, but the dead look in his eyes and the universal knowledge of what he'd once seen still lent him a portentous air.

Everyone quieted as he rasped, "Don't look at me, messieurs. As God's my witness, I was not at my post. There's no one there, monsieur. You see? Unless, of course..." he stuck his head suddenly into the noose, his face wild with drunken glee. "It's the _ghost!" _

As he guffawed down at the frightened ballet girls, Meg looked with hard eyes into the rafters. She said in an insistent voice, "Here's there: the Phantom of the Opera..." Christine tugged at her arm curiously, noting that this seemed almost a mantra of Meg's. The phrase often passed her lips.

"Good heavens! Will you show a little courtesy?" Andre snapped at Meg. His enchantment with her and her dancing fled with these recent events, and the fact Meg now shed the flirtatious act of her character and revealed the outspoken and childlike aspect of her true personality.

"Mademoiselle, please," Firmin echoed. Christine at last succeeded in pulling Meg beside her where she sat on the floor.

Andre was all ingratiating smiles as he turned to Carlotta, who was being fanned by Piangi and petted by her maids as she sat collapsed in her chair. "These things do happen," Andre said in his most honeyed tones.

A moment of silence followed, Andre frozen by her deadly glare.

" 'These things do happen?'" She repeated in a cold, quiet voice, her accent strong.

At Andre's dumb look, she snapped, rising to her feet. "Si! These things _do _happen! _All the time! _I cannot work in these...in these...horrid conditions!" She addressed her paramour. "Ubaldo! _Andiamo_!"

Seemingly from nowhere Piangi was at her side with furs, bag, and dog. As he helped her into her stole, she spoke furiously to Firmin, Andre, Lefevre, and the whole theater. "Until you stop these things happening, _this _thing does _not _happen!" Holding back her indignant tears behind an enraged mask, she stormed past the two new managers, whipping them with the tale of her mink.

Piangi followed behind her with his hat and coat in hand, sniffing "amateurs" at them as he passed.

Firmin and Andre looked desperately toward Lefevre.

They were taken aback by the gentle smile on his face.

Throughout the hubbub a strange feeling of serenity had fallen over the old man.

He...he didn't have to worry about this.

He...

He was _done._

Casually, as if greeting two acquaintances on a sunny day in the park, Lefevre said, "I don't think there's much more to assist you with, gentlemen. Good luck. If you need me, I shall be in Frankfurt."

He did not take a moment to breathe in, for the last time, one more whiff of the life he'd devoted himself to for twenty years. He made no lingering eye contact with Giry, Reyer, or anyone else.

Instead he turned swiftly and with a quickness unexpected from a man his age, he left.

Contrary to his parting words, he never left a forwarding address with which to reach him.

He was gone.

Firmin and Andre stood stranded on the island of the stage, surrounded on all sides by hungry sharks.

The sticky sensation of embarrassment caught in their unprepared throats.

"La Carlotta will be back," Andre weakly offered.

"You think so, messieurs?" All jumped. Even her daughter had forgotten Madame Giry's presence throughout the chaos. She stood in her stiff black gown with her dark hair coiled in a braid around her head, the white envelope with its blood-red seal in her hand the only splash of color about her. "I have a message, sir, from the Opera Ghost."

The ballet girls all squealed, each in their turn tugging at Meg's skirt, tapping her shoulder, looking for reassurance. Meg squeezed their hands, though never letting go of Christine's.

"God in Heaven, you're all obsessed!" Firmin scolded. He and Andre had the evening before laughed together about the well-known Opera Ghost figure, meaning to consult with Lefevre if he'd like them to keep up the ruse after he left. Now it appeared the whole company genuinely believed in the idiotic rumor, or else this was an immense prank on the new owners.

But there was no humor in the stony face of Madame Giry as she continued. "He merely welcomes you to his opera house and commands you to continue to leave Box Five empty for his use and reminds you that his salary is due."

"His salary?" Firmin hoped he misheard.

"M. Lefevre paid him twenty thousand francs a month." At the aghast expression of the men before her, she added, "Perhaps you can afford more, with the Vicomte de Chagny as your patron."

"Madame, I had hoped to have made that announcement myself," Andre said curtly.

It was too late. The damage was done. The ballet and chorus girls all giggled excitedly amongst themselves. Although the vicomte had only recently come back to Paris, stories abound about how handsome the young man was.

Meg felt Christine grip her with the tightness of someone holding on for dear life. The blood appeared drained from her face. _She_ had not heard of his return. Now the bottom had come out of everything, and joy and terror warred in her soul. His name pounded in her temples, again and again. Maybe...maybe it wasn't him, maybe it was a cousin, an old man or a pimply boy, maybe...

"Will the vicomte be at the performance tonight, monsieur?" Giry asked. Meg wondered why her mother was so curious.

"In our box," Firmin answered.

Andre returned to the problem at hand. "Madame, who is the understudy for this role?"

"There is no understudy, monsieur! The production is new!" Reyer cried out. Of everyone present, he was the most distraught. Everything that happened onstage reflected on him, and he'd lost his two leads. "Piangi has an understudy, but La Carlotta insists in her contract on only having one for works in the repertoire. Those older productions get little press. She fears an understudy assigned to her in a newer production would be more eager to edge her out!" He pulled at his hair, face red. "What are we to do?"

Meg's impulsiveness, courage, and most of all her deep love for her friend led her next actions. She didn't even hesitate. "Christine Daae could sing it, sir!" She was on her feet. Christine stared at her with dead-eyed horror from where she shrank into herself on the stage floor.

Then she stared at the managers.

They and the entire company stared incredulously back.

"The chorus girl?" Firmin asked aghast.

"She's been taking lessons from a great teacher," Meg said with eager pride, as if the accomplishment were her own.

"From whom?"

This was addressed directly to Christine. She opened her mouth once or twice like a dying fish before answering in a quiet shaking voice. "I...don't know, sir."

A universal sigh of aggravation and exasperation across the stage. "Oh, not you as well!"

Meg commiserated with her, whispering, "Christine! For heaven's sake, certainly now that you have this chance, you can tell everyone who your teacher is!"

Christine shook her head helplessly. "But Meg, I honestly can't! You don't understand! I"-

"_Let her sing for you, monsieur." _Madame Giry's voice cut through the tumult. With nary a change in her expression she nodded toward the girl. "She has been well taught."

This was a surprise to Meg and Christine. Madame Giry never went to any of Christine's singing lessons, or understudy rehearsals for the chorus. When had she heard Christine sing?

However, Firmin and Andre were not insusceptible to the rigid air Giry had of a schoolmistress that demanded obedience.

Plus, what else was there to do? They were grasping at straws – or, at least, a pretty chorus girl.

With a weary gesture of defeat, Firmin signaled to Reyer.

Huffing, the director marched over to Christine. Meg helped her to her feet, noticing the way Christine's legs were shaking.

Reyer shoved the score in her face. "From the beginning of the aria then, mademoiselle." Almost immediately he snapped the book shut. He anticipated disaster.

So did everyone else. Half the stage consisted of practical worriers who feared the cancellation of the opera, which might eventually lead to the end of their careers. The more flippant half eagerly awaited what they felt sure would prove an amusing display of incompetence.

Meanwhile, Meg and Christine clutched each other's hands.

"You can do this," Meg said. Her face was like a sunrise: faith in Christine in her eyes and a wide smile encouraging her.

Christine felt temporarily warmed by Meg's loyalty, but nonetheless slunk almost guiltily center stage. Meg rushed to the props that Carlotta in her angered haste had hurled across the stage during her exit. Meg picked up the long silk scarf Elissa occupies her hands with during the aria.

With an almost deferential grace she presented her friend with it now.

One last look at each other, then Christine nodded slowly to the pianist.

Unconsciously taking the lead from Christine's timid attitude, the pianist played the opening bars in a gentler, softer key.

Even then, when Christine finally sang, the words were hardly audible over the music.

"_Thinkofme_

_Thinkofmefondly_

_When...we've said...goodbye._

_R-remember me..once in a w-while_

_Please promise me...you'lltry."_

Filled with despair and terror, Christine turned like a child instinctively to Meg, who likewise instinctively reached out to comfort and encourage her. Both drew back as Madame Giry once more brought down her cane with a loud bang.

"Andre, this is doing nothing for my nerves," Firmin groaned out the side of his mouth.

Yet a meditative look came over Andre's face. "Don't fret, Firmin." The voice was weak, but...there was a tone there...

Meg stared hard at her friend, willing that some of her own faith in her should transfer to the shaking girl with the scarf.

Her hopes raised when she saw Christine close her eyes. She recognized that look. Christine was about to lose herself in the song. Meg smiled.

All snickering and doubtful murmurs faded as suddenly glory itself soared out of the young woman's throat.

"_When you find, that once again you long_

_to take your heart back and be free,_

_if you ever find a moment, _

_spare a thought for me!"_

Great gasps of disbelief abound as Christine continued, turning the song into the most poignant expression of beauty and longing they'd ever heard.

Firmin and Andre saw daybreak.

When she finished to delighted and amazed applause, she collapsed into Meg's arms, the friends embracing, crying, and laughing.

Madame Giry stood apart from the rest, watching with a mix of pride in Christine and moody foreboding.

She knew now that Erik did indeed take an active interest in the girl.

For everything had unfolded as Erik said it would in the other note she received, two weeks ago.

The first part of the letter told her not to fret over the sudden illness of Mlle. Sonya when the new managers arrived – she would recover quickly.

But in the meantime, Miss Christine Daae was to fill in for her during rehearsal.

Miss Christine Daae was also to take Carlotta's place opening night. Should there be any trouble with the management, Giry was to stand firm and promote her.

Whether Erik intuited that Meg's friendly nature would make her the first to nominate Christine for the role or not, Giry didn't know. She supposed it did not matter now.

After hearing Christine sing the aria, Madame Giry no longer doubted Erik's motives, either.

And she feared, she feared desperately for the girl.

Luckily she'd thought of the vicomte.

She remembered coming home late one evening about a year and a half ago, opening the door of her flat so quietly that the two girls in Meg's room did not hear her enter.

But she heard their conversation.

She heard the dreamy, far-off voice of Christine Daae telling Giry's daughter all about a long-lost young love, a dashing vicomte. Raoul de Chagny.

Two months ago Madame Giry heard that name again. In society it was apparently well known that the young viscount had returned from the Navy. Always eager to flaunt her upper-class connections, La Sorelli regaled a fellow dancer with all the details of an affair she once carried on with his late brother and what she had seen of Raoul then. "This boy Raoul, you know, he was not like Philippe or any of the rest from what I remember. He was a very eager, sincere fellow. Handsome too, so handsome! He thought I was ridiculous, the brat, but I can't hold it against such a good-looking specimen. He was quite fond of the arts, as I recall."

After Giry received the Phantom's note, she sat down at her desk and wrote one of her own. She walked to the post office, leaving instructions that she wanted all her mail forwarded there for the time being.

In just two days she received a reply directly from the vicomte. He would be delighted to serve as patron of the Opera House.

Madame Giry smiled to herself now, watching Meg prepare Christine for tonight's gala performance.

For the first time there was a development at the opera house Erik had been unaware of, and Giry hoped it would be Christine's salvation.

* * *

**A/N: So as you can probably tell, I borrowed the majority of the dialogue straight from the OLC libretto (including its version of the "Think of Me" lyrics). I don't think I'll have to do this again, it's just that the _Hannibal _rehearsal is the most dialogue-heavy scene with much-needed exposition.  
**


	10. Chapter 10

Madame Firmin noticed that the instant Christine Daae's name was mentioned onstage before the performance that Raoul de Chagny's distant face immediately transformed – froze, then melted.

The polished manners disappeared to reveal a true boyish smile, a hearty laugh of delight and surprise.

This piqued the lady's interest, as with the rest of the audience, she felt only disappointed when her husband announced to the audience the change in program from the famous La Carlotta to some unknown. Mme. Firmin knew of the switch beforehand, of course, as her husband had told her all about it when he arrived home that evening. He looked like he'd been struck by lightning. From the sounds of it, he'd had the worst first day one could possibly have at a new job – yet he was hopeful that the day might yet turn out triumphantly.

A socialite in her youth, she'd met many handsome, charming young men, but never one who possessed such warmth as Monsieur de Chagny. He was still tanned from his tour with the navy, and his eyes had the bright but far-off look of the sea, his dark blonde hair the sheen of sand in the sun. With his tall frame, broad shoulders, and chiseled features, he was enough to make the hearts of women of any age flutter (though hers still belonged exclusively to Richard, Mme. Firmin dutifully reminded herself – but what was the harm in looking?). There was something strikingly leonine about the young vicomte. It was difficult to believe he was only twenty-four.

Yet for all his warmth there was something rather unsettled about his movements, as if he was just keeping himself in check. He acted like he wanted to say or do something – but what he did not know.

But the moment Miss Daae's name was spoken, a revelation took over his features.

As he sat anxiously awaiting the curtain to rise, Raoul felt joy. He wondered to himself if this was to be the pattern of his life: cynicism on his own, light-hearted joy with the Daaes.

His experience in the navy had both served him well and increased his cynical outlook. He'd met brave men, steadfast and true, but also degenerates and bullies. He'd been spared no hard labor, and the fact he handled it well soured him rather than endeared him to the latter group of men. To be wealthy and privileged was one thing, to be a hard worker was another. To combine the two was deemed unfair and greedy by the majority.

He did not earn many friends, despite his jovial nature.

When he returned to Paris, he was surprised that on the surface, he was able to once again easily mimic the mannerisms and courtesies appropriate for his class and station after so long at sea without them. However, inside he felt anxious and discontent.

He'd heard of Gustav Daae's death a few years after it happened, while still in the navy. As he'd never learned Madame Valerius's Paris address, he sent his long letter of condolence to his sister Laverne to pass on to Christine.

Laverne wrote back apologizing, explaining she was not acquainted with Mme. Valerius and therefore knew not her address. She had heard, however, that the retired dance instructor left Paris.

Laverne was satisfied when she sent the letter. While she detested lying, it was for Raoul's own good. In truth, she had spotted the Christine Daae girl not long ago taking a walk with her foster mother. She was getting far too pretty, and Laverne would not have her darling baby brother associate with the same bad sort of women his older brother had. Not only was Christine Daae in the opera, but she was half Jewish, to boot. Simply unacceptable.

Raoul received his sister's letter and, dejected, tried to accept that he would more than likely never see his little Christine again.

And now there were Firmin and Andre on the stage, nervously announcing her name to a chagrined audience.

As the managers settled into the box - Box Four, not Five; they weren't tempting fate tonight - they like Firmin's wife were surprised by the sudden childlike happiness in the heretofore polite but remote young man's bearing.

The curtain rose. Firmin and Andre cast one look at each other. They held their breath.

Raoul stared, smiling.

Then his eyebrows flew to his hairline when the most beautiful voice he'd ever heard floated up from the stage.

_This trophy_

_from our saviors, from our saviors,  
_

_from the enslaving force of Rome!_

A hushed gasp from the audience.

Carlotta would have hurled the verse at the audience like a discus.

_This_ girl – this _woman – _sang-snarled the words in a subtly seductive tone as she held the grotesque severed plaster-cast head. This combined with her ethereal tone of voice paralyzed the audience more than any overt theatrics could have. She blazed like fire in her red and gold patterned Carthage dress.

Raoul's mouth was parched. His eyes stung.

He felt as you do in a dream when seeing someone almost known to you, when the features are familiar, but alien at the same time: out of place, mystical.

This figure dressed in a sparking, exotic gown of red, green, and gold, with a crown atop her head, had the same curly hair and the same expressive eyes of the Christine Daae he'd left behind.

But instead of a gawky thirteen-year-old, the hair, eyes, and smile belonged to a goddess, serene and magnificent.

A skeptic might claim her interpretation of Elissa was too youthful, too endearing. But there was not a skeptic there at the end of the night. Her voice was like the purest crystal.

Raoul felt something odd and painful in his chest.

He'd known only a few women, and felt nothing but shame and dissatisfaction afterward. The sailors were jeering and singing outside the tavern window, and nothing was clean.

But Christine...no, Christine was a spindly little thing chasing after him on the beach, laughing like a charming and graceless donkey at everything he said.

Who was this slender, ecstatic young woman, her swan neck leaned back as that glorious voice, no longer containing the childlike notes from before, filled Raoul's soul with...

With _what?_

Raoul felt unsettled still, but of a different kind.

The sensation thrilled him.

He was the first on his feet after every aria.

During the curtain call, Christine at last let her true smile show.

And there in that smile was the seaside and Gustav and Raoul's youth, his happiness.

A great, overwhelming heat engulfed him.

So many years had gone by. She may not remember him, but he remembered her.

"I must see her," was all he could say to the managers, his wistful smile still hovering over his features.

Madame Firmin smirked in anticipation of the first romance for her to observe at the opera house.

* * *

Meg watched Christine from the shadows of the wings, feeling the same pride and joy as Raoul, but hampered by worry.

Since Christine started her lessons, Meg had only heard brief snippets of her singing. Christine said her master did not want her to sing publicly until he'd given his consent. And now watching her sing tonight, Meg noticed something about her improved voice she hadn't before.

The notes were glorious, beautiful.

But they weren't _hers_.

She acted and sang perfectly, capturing the audience and bringing them to their feet.

But she didn't seem herself.

Meg blinked awake from her musings, the ballet girls having gathered around her. They were already changed back into their tutus, as Meg was. Mother wouldn't be pleased. They'd all danced horribly tonight, she thought.

She wasn't far from the truth – they'd all danced as they usually did, but at a hectic, distracted pace.

Meg was too busy helping Christine prepare for the evening to properly see to her own rehearsals, and tonight she was more unprepared than at any other performance in her almost fifteen years of dancing. Luckily, she'd been performing so long that she was able to fool the audience with a few improvised steps here and there when a cue was missed. Still, Mother would _not _be pleased with such shambling recoveries.

Yet Christine had shook so much when Firmin and Andre gave their blessing for her performance, and needed the support of a friend throughout the night. And so Meg whispered words of encouragement in-between scenes, in-between costume changes. Yet Christine's wide brown eyes only stared ahead vacantly, almost like a marionette without its puppeteer.

Then she'd transform onstage, seemingly in control again.

Meg shivered as the music reached its climax. The audience erupted into applause. The opera was finished.

The dancers got as close to the stage as they could during Christine's several encores, trying to catch a glimpse of her.

Meg wanted to feel simple happiness for Christine, but the singer's lifeless behavior backstage, and the...the _force_, the _presence_ onstage that wasn't _hers_...Meg couldn't help feeling anxious, too.

At last the curtains closed and Christine turned around to greet the girls. Meg immediately relaxed. Christine looked tired, but herself again. The smile was hers.

Even the girls who hadn't quite warmed to Christine swarmed around her now, eager to take some part in her triumph. Christine generously gave each girl a rose from her bouquet, until she held but one.

Closest at her side was Meg. The two friends locked eyes. Relief and gleeful triumph were written in their expressions as they squeezed each other's hands.

A deep familiar voice interrupted the throng of talkative petite rats. "Yes, you did well," Madame Giry said, a streak of black amongst a sea of white tutus. Meg saw her mother's eyes narrow meaningfully as she leaned in and gripped Christine's arm. "He will be pleased."

Christine whitened.

The ballet mistress turned to her girls. "And you," she said, and proceeded to dispense the lecture they were all expecting. "You were a disgrace tonight! Such _ronds de jombe_! Such _temps de cuisse_! Come!" She clapped her hands harshly. "We rehearse _now_."

Automatically Meg swallowed her frustration and lined up with the other dancers, watching as Christine drifted away. In unison they went through their movements, careful to uphold accuracy under Giry's watchful eyes.

However, Meg kept a close eye on her mother and waited until she passed Meg in her line. Then the young girl sneaked quietly away, winking once at Cecile, who nodded in reply: she'd cover for her.

Meg found Christine outside her dressing room. The young diva stood frozen, staring upwards. She looked as if she were listening to something.

She jumped when Meg tapped her shoulder. Her features relaxed when she saw her friend.

Meg couldn't hold her high curiosity in check any longer. "Where in the world have you been hiding? You were perfect, really you were! I only wish I knew your secret. Who is your tutor?" The eager yearning in her eyes brooked no room for argument.

Christine took a moment. She breathed in deeply. She looked cautiously behind her, around her. Then she finally inched closer and stared confidingly at Meg. "Father once spoke of an angel, you remember," she reminded Meg. "I've dreamed all these years he'd appear. I truly did. And now...now I sense him whenever I sing!"

Taking Meg by the hand, she pulled the puzzled dancer into the dressing room with her. Christine's quiet dresser Marie was standing waiting. Her gray hair sat neatly atop her head, her posture straight.

Seeing her, Christine whispered the rest of her story to Meg in a low voice as Marie smoothed out Christine's dressing gown. "He teaches me here in this room, calling me softly! Hiding somewhere. Somehow I knew he's always with me, he, the unseen genius!"

Her voice was quiet, but her expression was vibrant.

Meg dismissed Marie, helping Christine herself with undressing, laying her shoes on the table. Now they could speak more freely. However, Meg didn't know where to begin. What Christine was saying...what _was _Christine saying? With great consternation, Meg said delicately, "Christine, you must have been dreaming. You certainly know stories like this, while nice, aren't real. You're talking in riddles, and it's not like you!"

Her worry only grew as Christine, seemingly unhearing, stood, staring ahead with glassy eyes. Her fingers fiddled uselessly with the tie to her dressing gown. "Angel of Music, that's what I call him. I pray each night, I pray, pleading, "grant to me your glory, my guide and guardian!'"

Meg's heart pounded fearfully. She...she sounded like a religious madwoman! Who _was_ this angel?

Meg had a sickening suspicion she didn't dare name.

She reached out and steadied Christine, noticing the previously deliriously happy girl was now pale as snow, her face stricken. "Meg," Christine whimpered. "He's with me, even now!"

"Your hands are cold," Meg murmured, looking at the trembling hand.

"He's...he's all around me."

A soft hand on her cheek. "Your face, Christine, it's white!"

Her heart almost broke in two as the most childlike expression of fear she'd yet seen stared out of Christine's helpless dark eyes. "It frightens me," she said in such a quiet voice.

The maternal urge surged strong through Meg. "Don't be frightened," she said in a steady sweet tone, staring warmly at her friend. Christine nodded once, breathing slowly.

Both their hearts dropped violently to their stomachs as the door flew open.

"Meg Giry," Madame Giry said sternly. "Are you a dancer?"

Meg nodded dumbly from where she'd backed into the mirror.

"Then go and practice," Giry said, motioning to the door.

Meg's temper heated her cheeks. Here was Christine having some sort of breakdown, and – and - "Rehearsal! Always rehearsal," she muttered angrily to herself, leaving the dressing room after one more reassuring squeeze to Christine's hand.

As she rejoined the corps de ballet, Meg thought back on the disturbing interview with her friend. As she spun and spun, she felt the air thicken around her, and at last she could no longer deny what she was sure she'd known the whole time.

Christine's teacher was the Phantom of the Opera.

Another shiver, deep this time, all down her spine.

Possessing the same intuitive nature as her mother, Meg also knew why.

"Oh God, let Christine be protected!" She thought desperately to herself as she almost collided with a surprised Cecile.

As if in answer to her prayer, Madame Giry was just then presenting Christine with a card that read in part:

_A red scarf...the attic...Little Lotte._


	11. Chapter 11

The buzzing in her temples clouded her eyes so that she could scarcely read the note.

The same phrases leaped out at her.

_A red scarf…the attic…Little Lotte._

The rest of the words were too jumbled in Christine's mind for her to properly process.

_It's him. It's him. It's HIM._

What she once used to dream, she now dreaded.

Her shoulders seized upward like a startled cat's at the knock on her door. A tremulous "yes" was all she could offer as she sat at her vanity.

She couldn't turn around even as the door opened.

The buzzing pounded like a hammer as she heard that warm deep voice again.

"Christine Daae, where is your red scarf?"

An electric shock down her neck. Hot tears stung her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed and she swayed just slightly in her seat. "...Monsieur?" She still could not face him.

The voice was closer now, right behind her. "You can't have lost it after all the trouble I took. I was just fourteen and soaked to the skin."

The dread vanished and a typhoon of seaside memories and wild infatuation washed over her. "Because you had run into the sea to fetch it!"

She stood and faced him.

He was there – more handsome than in any of her dreams. But more than that, there was the gleam in his eyes: endlessly kind, playful, mature.

"Oh, Raoul! So it _is _you!"

Raoul could only wordlessly shake his head for a moment, his composure suddenly gone. Now that he was closer to her, he could see more easily that fond, doe-eyed look again, amidst the glory of her new beauty. A faint trace of lemon verbena clung to her long curls. At last he smiled, and Christine forgot she'd ever felt misery. "Christine."

She flew into his arms with the graceless energy of that child at the beach, and Raoul squeezed her to him, squeezed her as if she were the last shred of happiness in a cold, hardened world.

Their laughter was the same and melded together.

After a long moment, Christine pulled away. Suddenly shy, she sat at her vanity again.

But Raoul wouldn't let her escape. Her heart broke as she heard the old playful and mischievous notes in his voice as he stood with his hands on her shoulders. "Is Little Lotte letting her mind wander again? After her great triumph?"

Christine's smile was so sad and happy at the same time. "Ah, so you remember that, too."

"Is she thinking of her fondness for dolls, goblins, shoes...?"

"Riddles, frocks," Christine finished for him, lost in the dream only they shared. Her hand was on his, and they stood thinking and feeling as one.

"Those picnics in the attic," Raoul whispered in a husky voice.

"Father playing the violin."

"As we read to each other dark stories of the north."

Christine suddenly sang.

"_No, what I love best, Lotte said,_

_is when I'm asleep in my bed,_

_and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head."_

Raoul shook his head in amazement again. To hear that old childhood rhyme from this new yet familiar voice, so exquisite and angelic, about turned his heart over. He'd never heard anything so indescribably sweet.

Christine turned to him and there was such a dark innocence about her refined features. "Father said, 'When I'm in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.'"

Raoul smiled. "Yes, I remember."

"He told it to me again on his deathbed."

Raoul closed his eyes and nodded. God, what she must have gone through after Gustav's death. The struggles of a girl without a family, with few connections...

A protective impulse surged through him. He wanted to hold her. Hold her.

"Well, father _is _dead, Raoul." Before he could offer condolences and excuses for his absence, she continued in a rapid voice. "And I _have _been visited by the Angel of Music."

Ingrained gallantry influenced Raoul's words. "Oh, I've no doubt of it! Your father would be so proud today, Christine. To celebrate, we'll now go to supper!"

Christine then noticed the champagne he held, the bouquet.

The dread came back in a wave.

She wanted to tell him...but how...

"No, Raoul. The Angel is very strict."

He was perplexed, but excused these words as very deadpan teasing. She was an actress, after all, and could pull off that sort of thing. "I shan't keep you up late!"

Christine shook her head. "No, Raoul." She wanted nothing more than to bury her face in his chest, but her Angel...her _father..._

For all his warmth and liberalism, Raoul was still a victim of his upbringing. He'd been trained to pursue and woo, and his natural enthusiasm convinced him she was simply continuing their game. He ignored her refusal. "_You _must change. _I _must get my hat. Two minutes" – The youthful, genuine Raoul suddenly peered out of his eyes and smile again. " – Little Lotte."

It was this reminder of all she held dear that kept Christine from calling out until he was already gone. "Raoul!"

She stood panic-stricken staring out the door as he vanished. "Things have changed, Raoul..."

* * *

It was terror that brought her back inside. Terror that turned her toward the mirror once the voice spoke in its thundering rage.

She took in his abuse of the departed Raoul with shuddering resignation. Terror was everywhere inside her.

She must see him, see the face of the Angel, to convince herself that everything that had happened was right.

And to take away the terror.

Terror turned to ecstasy once the Angel's indistinct, ice-pale face appeared in the mirror.

Then she felt and knew nothing as he drew her in, drew her away. All she saw was mist and all she felt was a sleepy surrendering...surrendering that dulled the terror.

* * *

Raoul bounded back at the precise moment Christine's hand was seized by the death-cold one on the other side of the mirror. Raoul halted at the closed door. He heard the eerie singing, the cajoling. The door was locked. Jealousy did not inflame his breast; instead, some primal, instinctive fear beat there.

This was not the smug voice of a lover.

There was something too haunting about it, something...predatory. Something not right, and why wasn't Christine saying anything?

He called her name, pounded on the door.

When at last it gave, he found himself alone inside her dressing room, all trace of her gone.

The berserk rage and panic he felt made him realize, in the back of his fevered mind, the truth.

He was in love with Christine.

And she was vanished.

Raoul had the blood of warriors, lions, and champions racing inside his veins. He fought for those he loved with the combined fierce passions of all.

What he couldn't handle was powerlessness.

And here he was, hat in hand, alone in the room _she - she - _had stood in and now had disappeared from.

Leaving him without a word, without one last look from those soft, mysterious, yearning, and mournful eyes that he knew he'd see until the day he died.

The passion, fear, and frustration bubbled out of him with one cry of frantic love.

"Christine! _Angel_!"


	12. Chapter 12

"Ah! There she is," Cecile said to Adele, jabbing the girl with her elbow. Cecile pointed to Meg, who was walking with absent steps in the opposite direction. She was leaving Christine's dressing room. Again.

Cecile and Adele, plus Nynette clutching to their skirts as they scurried quietly down the hall, headed toward the petite figure.

Meg remained lost in thought, not hearing their approach.

The clownish side of her personality coming to the forefront, Adele sneaked up to Meg with muffled steps and poked her in the rib.

She whirled around shrieking. After a burst of laughter, the girls felt a flash of guilt and surprise at the terror – yet fight – gleaming in Meg's wide eyes.

They all quickly regained their composure. Adele giggled and leapt back as Meg swatted at her. "Boor!" Meg mock-scolded. "You frightened me half to death."

"That was the plan," the freckled young Adele replied, curtseying with a devilish grin on her face.

"Are you all right, Meg?" Nynette asked uneasily. "Did something happen? You looked so afraid!"

Meg bit her bottom lip for a moment, thoughtful. "It's...it's Christine. She still can't be found."

The three girls collectively bit their tongues. The story quickly spread around the opera house that the dashing young vicomte was seen heading to her quarters alone after the opera, and that Christine had subsequently disappeared, and still wasn't back the next day. Putting two and two together, most people in the Opera Populaire came to the same conclusion regarding Christine's whereabouts.

Even the ballet girls, who'd come to accept and even like Christine, were inclined to agree. They passed no judgment. They'd all seen Raoul, heard his deep, masculine voice. They understood.

Yet Cecile, knowing of Meg's love and high opinion of Christine, and being the most sensitive of the ballet girls after Meg and Christine, insisted on their silence. She kicked Adele now, halting her giggle. Still, Cecile privately wished Meg wasn't so naive.

"Oh, I'm sure she's all right, Meg," Cecile said. "You know how solitary Christine is. She's probably resting after such an ordeal."

"Yes, but where? Poor Madame Valerius is worried to death! She hasn't seen her since before the debut! And Christine was so queer after the performance! She" – _No, Meg, _she chided herself._ Christine spoke to you in confidence. Until you know more, don't start talking your fool head off to the first people you meet about everything._

"Well, enough of that," Cecile announced, taking Meg's hand. She felt it wise to take Meg's mind off the matter. "Come on! The girls are gathering by the prop room. Old Buquet's telling stories about you-know-who."

"Oh, I don't know if I'm in the mood," Meg said warily. She usually looked forward to Buquet's stories with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. She yearned to learn all she could about the opera ghost, but from Joseph Buquet of all people – so leering, so off-kilter – so inclined toward revealing what Meg feared was _too _much – the whole thing made her uncomfortable. Plus, with Christine's disappearance, the Phantom was no longer a dim shadow at the regions of Meg's consciousness but now an active threat to someone she loved.

Yet the three ballet girls gave her no choice. They pulled at her and whined at her, until Meg found herself practically dragged to the designated spot.

Buquet sat like a lumpen giant in the center of the graceful figures dressed in frilly white, the girls huddled on the floor around him. As Meg and the others approached, he was showing off the grim plaster-cast heads lining the prop room shelves.

Meg was tentatively optimistic. Hopefully Buquet was too distracted showing off his prowess with these grisly props to want to gossip about the phantom.

The girls all shivered and squealed at the way he made the heads distort themselves, the white eyes open and close. Meg, however, had forced herself in her youth to study closely these hideous, leprous visages, determined to tackle any fear of them head on. She'd been successful. She was used to them now.

She felt a surge of annoyance as Buquet's eyes lit up upon seeing her. She recognized that look. Meg knew now there would be no getting away from hearing about the Phantom.

Joseph Buquet had some sort of fix on Meg. He maintained an antagonistic relationship with what he considered her nag of a mother, who disapproved of his drinking and his loose tongue. Because he couldn't openly defy the forbidding ballet mistress, he settled instead for frightening her impressionable daughter with tales of the ghost.

And he wouldn't lie to himself. He was also noticing what a fine-looking girl she'd become: strawberry blonde mane, wide clear eyes, inviting curves blossoming on her delicate frame. He often imagined pulling the innocent white ribbon from her luxurious hair, and watching as her cheeks reddened, her form trembling...

Meg trembled now, inching toward Cecile and looping her arm through hers. Joseph's pasty face stretched into a smirk more ghoulish than any expression he could maneuver out of the plaster-cast heads.

He quickly put the prop aside and took out the lasso again.

His glee increased as he saw Meg recoil while the girls around her clapped.

"Forget those heads, children," he said in his raspy voice. "Gruesome as they are, they are nothing compared to the Phantom's face."

"What's he look like?" Jeanne blurted out.

Usually at this point Buquet would smile darkly and then change the subject, expounding instead on another rumor about the Phantom's mischief. However, Buquet noticed Meg seemed distracted and nervous, and the rum he'd just drunk made him more anxious than usual for her undivided attention. So for the first time, the chief of the flies dared describe in detail the Phantom's face.

"Like yellow parchment is his skin," he began in a voice more ominous than usual. He started playing with the lasso, trapping and freeing his hand to brief smatterings of applause. "A great black hole in the center of his face – for you see, he has no nose! One never grew!" He swayed on his stool, his knuckles brushing against a nearby girl's skirt. "His head is like a skeleton's – a true death's head!"

Joseph Buquet, in truth, did not remember much of his momentary encounter with the opera ghost some five years past. He'd already been a bit of a surly drunk then, but competent and serious in his duties. He'd only gone down to the cellars to seek out that old fool Lajos, as the rats had been at the backdrops again.

He was a devout atheist, a skeptic. He'd forced himself not to bite the heads off fools who spoke seriously of a phantom in front of him. Nonsense. Idiotic nonsense.

But on that night he was lost in the cellars, having taken too many downward turns in his haste, in the dark. His temper rising, he stumbled and cried out, falling a good foot or so. He swore as the light in his lantern snuffed out. When he finally managed to light it again, he discovered he'd fallen through a trap door into a small circular room...surrounded by mirrors.

"What..." he started to ask himself. Then he heard a slight shuffling sound. He turned around.

The figure in the corner froze like a cat caught in a street light.

Buquet only saw him for a split second through the dim glow of the lantern.

The unexpected presence, the disorienting location, and the rum buzzing in his temples obscured his view. All that penetrated his mind was the side of Erik's face he could see – the patches of dry yellow and the wide nostril that looked like a gaping hole that, in Buquet's feverish imagination, took the place of a nose.

What he remembered most of all was that ice-blue eye and its slitted pupil suddenly blazing like something unearthly, with malice, as the figure slowly leaned toward Buquet.

With a scream like a bellows, Buquet dropped the lantern and crashed through one of the mirrors. He was suddenly somewhere cool and bluish-dark. He ran. He ran and he ran. He ran as the shards of glass scraped his skin, as he tripped over rats, as his feet slipped in puddles.

A night watchman found him just outside the opening at the rue bridge, sobbing and hysterical. The young man escorted Buquet through the back door of the opera house, through the upper floors of the cellar, until Madame Giry found them in the corridor outside the ballet dormitories.

The watchman looked at her questioningly. She only stared numbly at the large man kneeling on the floor, wailing like a half-starved baby.

The competence, the assured attitude, the no-nonsense work ethic disappeared after that night. He became a blithering drunk who took a grim triumph over the pathetic power he held over the ballet girls.

"You must be careful," he warned them now, snickering. "Or else he'll catch you! With this! His magical lasso!" Once more he stuck his head through the makeshift noose, howling with laughter.

_You fool, _Meg thought with pity.

Then she seized, staring up with her breath caught in her throat. She pointed and screamed along with the others.

For a trap door in the distance had opened, and cast over the scene was the large, all en-compassing silhouette of a man's face. The long brim of his fedora extended toward them like a ghostly arm.

A flurry of graceful, frightened sheep, the ballet girls leapt up and ran in unison. "This way!" Meg called, leading them toward their dressing room.

She stumbled and slipped over the interlocked feet and hands reaching for her. She was a shepherdess leading her frightened flock away from the wolf.

Once they reached the door, Meg turned back.

Cecile grabbed at her hand. "Wait! Where are you going?"

Meg's pale eyes gleamed like candles lit too bright. "The Phantom. Christine. I have to save her"-

"Meg Giry, you fool!" – But it was too late. Meg wrenched herself from Cecile's grasp and barreled back from where she'd run.

Her heart was jumping in her chest like a caged rabbit's, her cheeks burning. She was ill with fright, but if she could just catch up with them, see Christine alive and well –

She cried out as she collided with something tall and black.

Instinctively covering her face, she felt the hard hands gripping her arms soften. "Come, Meg, come. It's all right, darling," came that familiar voice that was soothing only ever for Meg.

The girl looked up with relief, seeing her mother's pale drawn face through the tears in her jade eyes. "M-mother! The ghost! He" –

"Never mind, child," Giry interrupted, smoothing her curls. "I've put that fool Buquet in his place. And now there's something far more important to attend to."

Taking her daughter's hand, Madame Giry led her to their flat. Already her mother's strong, invincible presence was calming her daughter. Meg's cheeks were still red and tears still stood in her eyes, but now only from embarrassment and relief, not fear.

Then she whitened completely when her mother opened the door to Meg's bedroom. _"Christine!"_

The young diva lay prostrate on Meg's bed, her dark mass of hair covering her face from where she hid it in Meg's pillow. She was still in her dressing gown from the night before. She was so still Meg for a quick, delirious moment thought she was dead.

Then Christine lifted her head, and Meg gasped at the change in her friend.

All color was drained from the already pale complexion, and she wore an expression of utter despair and exhaustion. She looked like the ghost of herself until those vacant dark eyes met Meg's.

Then the doe-like vulnerability reappeared, and her voice came out in a long, pleading whine. "Meg..."

The ballerina flew to her side, sitting beside her, cradling her head in her lap.

"Christine, Christine!...What...what happened to you? Where did you go?"

A groan was her only answer. Christine shivered as she clutched the girl's tutu with increasing urgency.

Images flew with dart-like clarity through the singer's mind.

_The boat..._

_The lake..._

_The man._

_The _monster.

The night in the lair began like every dark fantasy she'd ever nourished. The man before her, tall, powerful, and lithe, hypnotized her with his gestures, with that soaring, ethereal voice. The candlelight and the mist...

Perhaps...perhaps this was what the Angel meant by love...maybe...he was Raoul and a spirit from Heaven combined into one...

Then sharp moments of lucidity and no no this was the Phantom NO –

His voice...

She was lulled, she was lost in the dark eye gazing at her...

But she couldn't clearly see the other. It was too heavily shaded by the mask...

A mask, why a mask?

Because the Phantom the Phantom THE PHANTOM HE'S HERE MEG YOU WERE RIGHT –

But gently now, gently. He knew the right notes to sing, the right darkness to tap into, as if he knew her soul's secrets.

And she followed.

Followed to the mirror in his lair, covered by a sheet.

Then the sheet was gone. She saw herself standing encircled by the jagged shards of glass.

Saw her own self standing before her, dressed as a bride.

She was dead.

The figure staring at her was herself dead, still and white, eyes wide and unseeing.

Horror gripped Christine more firmly than ever before. She was a captive, there was no Angel, and this –

Just as she approached the apparition, it lunged at her with arms outstretched.

This was Hell.

She felt and heard nothing more, only vaguely sensing him catch her as she fainted.

When she awoke, he – .

_When she awoke._

Christine groaned aloud again, wrestling with the memories now tossing mercilessly and incoherently in her head.

The monkey woke her, the only genuine article of warmth and humanity in the lair. She'd briefly traced the velvet lining with her finger as the monkey played the jaunty little tune from the masquerade ball on his cymbals.

Yet the memory of the monkey's face distorted. Distorted into –

An angel from hell.

His back to her at the organ. Her slow walk to him. One quick swipe of the white mask.

Then horror.

Horror.

As he crawled, oozed on his belly toward her like a snake, he confessed his deceit and obsession. Every shadow in the lair, every glimmer of candlelight threw some new hideous angle on that grotesque facade.

"_Oh, Christine..."_

She sobbed now on Meg's bed, reaching for the only tangible landline she could find. She pressed Meg's hand violently, desperately.

And Meg turned wondering eyes upward to her mother.

Madame Giry stood grim and stoic. Only her daughter could have deciphered the painful look of compassion and pity in those mystifying dark eyes as they gazed down at Christine.

Drugged, maybe, Giry thought. But no, more than likely Erik had been using the mirror to mesmerize the girl, employing the same black art that eluded even the masters in Persia.

_Oh, God or Gods, whoever or whatever you are or are comprised of, what's to be done?_

She placed a soft hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Come. Let us take her home to Madame Carina."

* * *

**A/N: Did pervy Buquet skeeve you out? What a creep. Stay away from Meg, you! Get outta town! Oh, wait...he does sorta leave the scene in a little bit here...**

**My next update probably won't be for another week at least, sorry! Be back soon!**


	13. Chapter 13

Newspaper readers suffered a sort of literary whiplash in adjusting themselves to how swiftly such papers as the _Queue _changed their minds about Christine Daae. Immediately after her gala performance, critics touted Christine as an angel, a marvel. "Her sweet unique voice", "palpable and expressive acting", and "ethereal beauty" stunned the reviewers. She had them eating out of her delicate hand.

The day after, once word reached them she'd disappeared into thin air after her success, Christine Daae was all at once a real-life damsel in distress. The press spoke of her as the heroine of a mystery novel more than as a professional singer.

She was kidnapped –

But wait – the handsome Vicomte de Chagny was seen courting her earlier that evening...

She went from angel to damsel to now vixen. The pretty singing lark became a scandalous fallen woman.

Yet all this served to increase public fascination with her.

Andre and Firmin kept all this in mind, weighing the advantages of the extra publicity, odd as it may be. But in the end, Christine Daae was considered too great a risk to stake much faith in. Thus Carlotta's venomous threats and denunciations of the girl's character wore them down, and they passed their verdict about who would play what role in the opera they and Carlotta decided would take the place of _Hannibal _for the rest of the season. How whoever this Phantom was knew of their selection of _Il Muto _beforehand, well, that was beyond them.

Such artistic politics were far from Raoul's mind as he left the manager's office later that day. After La Carlotta and the others departed the office to begin rehearsing _Il Muto, _Raoul stayed behind, pressing the managers for any information about this figure calling himself the "Opera Ghost". All he met were professions that they were just as perplexed as he.

Raoul quickly surmised that the managers, though intelligent in a small businessman sort of way, lacked the finesse and the motivation to serve as puppeteers behind such stunts.

He shivered even as he put on his overcoat near the front entrance, staring dolefully once more at the note in his hand. Christine was returned. She was safe. But who had taken her? What madman would want to torture the angel...?

"_Psst! _Monsieur," a breathy voice whispered to him.

He turned around. From down the corridor, dressed now in the ostentatious jeweler's attendant get-up for the opera, the pretty young ballerina Meg Giry stealthily tiptoed up to him.

"Mademoiselle...?" He questioned.

Her eyes were wide and her manners quiet, but she displayed none of the usual shyness and fluttering behavior he'd witnessed from the other dancers and chorus members he'd been introduced to so far. He'd noticed her observing him with a thoughtful look of suppressed excitement in the office, but without a hint of flirtatiousness.

She approached him now with the air of one on a secret mission. He raised his eyebrows as she suddenly clutched his wrist. He was used to forward behavior, from the salty cussing of men aboard the _Borda _to the brawling tavern inhabitants he'd met on his journeys_, _but since coming back to Paris, the genteel ladies he'd met in society never acted so familiar.

Yet once more, as he gazed into those eager eyes, he saw not a coquette but instead the gleam of a little soldier.

"Monsieur, will you wait for me to change quickly? I'd like to take you somewhere."

Such a straightforward little proposition. It caught even the poised young viscount off guard. "And...where would that be, mademoiselle?"

"To see Christine."

She held his interest fully now. "Can you take me to her?" At her nod, he pressed on, "But I thought you said she needed rest."

A warm little smile tucked in the corners of her mouth. "I think she needs to see you more."

The day had been wearying, and Raoul's recent experience at the hands of the suspicious La Carlotta made him more brusque than usual. "Now see here, mademoiselle, you've doubtless heard the sordid rumors about Miss Daae and myself, but"-

Meg shook her head, her smile widening. "Oh, there's nothing to any of the silly talk, I know! Not...not like _that, _anyhow."

Raoul's manner gentled. He was surprised. "Oh? And how can you be so sure?"

Meg shrugged easily. "Because it's not in Christine's character! Or yours."

Raoul stifled a laugh. "And tell me, Miss Giry, how do you know it is not in my character?"

That straightforward simplicity again, meeting his gaze without artifice of any kind. "Because Christine believes in you."

His cheeks warmed and his eyes stung. He smiled and shook the small hand gratefully. "I'll go with you gladly."

* * *

"_Now that you've seen me, you can never be free! You'll sing for me always! Always...Christine..."_

A deep moan escaped the huddled figure of Christine, coiled on her own bed now.

She desperately breathed in the smell of the pillow she'd laid her head on almost nightly for the past six years, clinging to any familiar scent and sensation to keep her grounded, sane. She felt reality slipping away from her rapidly, and the sickening topsy-turvy sense that the world had spun upside-down overwhelmed her.

Could it really have been just a day ago she felt a woman, commanding the stage and singing, and staring into Raoul's sea-blue eyes? Was it really so quickly she'd collapsed into a frightened child once more, sobbing in her bedroom at Mamma Valerius's, as she had when her father died?

But why not? Wasn't she mourning a sort of death all over again? The death of a beautiful dream, a dream of heaven, only to wake and discover she was in hell the whole time.

Mamma Valerius's gentle but authoritative tap on the door stirred her.

Christine was able to weakly reply, and the door opened softly.

Meg and Madame Giry were afraid that Christine's disappearance would weaken her invalid foster mother to perhaps death's door, but the old woman surprised everyone by rallying herself in the aftermath of the debut. She'd hardly touched her bed since word reached her about Christine's absence. Since Christine's return, Valerius now spent half her time at the girl's bedside and the rest of the time in the kitchen, overseeing the broth and pastries the cook made to tempt the young singer, who had eaten but little all day.

"You have a visitor, _ma petite," _Mamma Valerius said in a hushed voice now.

Christine did not look up, merely nodded her head listlessly.

The old woman motioned her assent to Meg. The young dancer saw that the ordeal seemed finally to be taking its toll on the former dance mistress, the bags under her eyes and the grayish tint to her beige-blotted, wrinkled skin a tell-tale sign of fatigue. She wobbled slightly as she walked away.

Quietly, Meg approached the bed, laying a soft hand on her friend's curls. "Christine?" The singer was still clothed in a dressing gown, but at least it was her own now. Its soft lilac color gleamed an ominous purple-blue in the dim light. Meg smoothed her own quiet sky blue skirt, one of but a handful of "civilian dresses" – as the petite rats called them - she owned. "How are you feeling?"

"Please..." Christine pleaded in a small voice, answering an unspoken question. "Please...I...I can't tell you where I've been, I can't..." She covered her face with her hands, sobbing.

Meg squeezed her shoulders. She said nothing for several minutes, simply letting Christine howl out her despair into her hands.

At last Christine's cries faded into stuttering sighs. Meg took this as a cue and spoke in a more chipper voice. "Very well! We don't have to talk about that. We can talk about...oh! Clara – you know Clara, don't you? Elodie's little girl – she just lost her first tooth! Her mother is ecstatic! Cecile and I are working on a little pouch for it. Gaelle and Edith are at it again, I don't know why those two squabble so, when they used to be such good friends. I really don't think either of them even liked Rolf all that much, it's just that neither could stand the other taking his eye! Just this morning Edith stuck Gaelle with a pin during a fitting, and Pauline – you won't believe it – Pauline actually boxed their ears!"

Christine's jagged, quiet crying was interrupted now by a brief but high giggle that suddenly escaped her, sounding like a hiccup. This was followed by another giggle, and then another. Finally a warm hand slipped into Meg's. The dancer pressed it, giggling too.

Christine slowly sat up and laid a weary head on her friend's shoulder. "What are they saying about..." She didn't seem to know how to go on. "What's...what's going to happen?"

Meg took a breath. She'd been waiting for a good transition, and Christine provided it for her. _Honesty is best. It won't help her if you dance around the details, and you know she wouldn't appreciate it. _"You can't...they're not going to play _Hannibal _anymore. La Carlotta doesn't want any part of it because you're so associated with it now. There's a clause in her contract apparently...if an understudy takes over a role without her consent, she has grounds for a lawsuit. And since you're not officially her understudy, that gives her an even better case. Rather than risk that, the managers have agreed to put on _Il Muto _instead. We've been rehearsing all day and hope to put it on by the end of the week."

_Il Muto _was done practically every season, and the company could perform it almost in their sleep.

Christine noticed Meg shift uncomfortably next to her. "What else?" Christine asked in a low voice.

Meg sighed, and stroked her friend's hair again. "Christine, they want you to be Serafimo."

Christine raised her head, blinking. "Serafimo? The pageboy?"

Meg grasped her hands, speaking quickly. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but this is for your own good, Christine! The Phantom is after you, and you must be protected! I know you don't want to talk about it, but that's the truth. If that means limiting your exposure for now, what's the harm? You can sing again soon, I swear it!"

Christine shook her head vehemently, almost in a frenzy, not bothering to pretend what Meg had said about the Phantom was untrue. "No, no, it isn't that! I...I don't know if I want to perform _at all! _In a silent role or otherwise!"

Meg blushed and shifted again. "But...but Christine, if you don't perform at all..." She bit her lip. "The managers are impressed with your voice and the notices you've received, but because of your absence...they're a little..." She didn't know how to delicately get across to Christine that if she acted any more erratically or missed any other performances they'd break her contract.

But Christine understood, and shook her head again stubbornly. "I don't care. I don't care what they do, do you hear me? Maybe I'll never go back. Maybe"-

Meg placed a hand over her mouth. "Maybe there's someone who can change your mind."

Christine looked at her puzzled. Meg stood and crossed wordlessly to the door. She poked her head outside and said something to someone. Then she motioned toward the guestroom next to Christine's. "Why don't you go in there for a moment, Christine?"

Christine studied the half impish, half loving expression on Meg's face. Then she knew.

Her heart surged.

She sped to the other room. She stood in the doorway, soaking in the golden presence of the man within.

Meg heard one sob from her that said everything: "Oh, Raoul!" Then Christine disappeared behind the door, closing it as Raoul's deep warm murmur greeted her.

Smiling to herself, Meg snuck out the house after bidding goodbye to Mamma Valerius, who nodded knowingly at her. Their hopeful expressions were the same.

At the end of the week, Meg and Pauline helped Christine into her outfit for Serafimo. Christine found courage not only in the bright eyes of the friend before her, but in the heart of the man sitting in the Phantom's place in Box Five.

* * *

**A/N: My apologies for the late update! Things are slowing down a tad with the holidays. Hopefully my next chapter will make up for it - I've got lots of action planned. :D  
**


	14. Chapter 14

Christine jolted in her seat in her dressing room as the orchestra boomed out the opening strains of the overture. She was alone in her dressing room now, for the first time since...

For the first time since...

She couldn't control the shaking hand that she leaned her forehead into, her elbow on her vanity. She massaged her temples. The rush of confidence she'd felt just moments before vanished.

Without Raoul, Meg, Madame Giry, or Mamma Valerius by her side, Christine felt weightless, unmoored.

And frightened. Most of all, frightened.

She tried distracting herself smoothing out a wrinkle in the voluminous white skirt tied loosely around her breeches. She'd lost so much weight recently that the clothes hanged off her as they would if she really were a young boy, she thought ruefully.

She picked up her hand mirror and breathed in deeply. She looked hard into the glass, trying to will herself calm.

She would not look in the wall-mounted mirror anymore.

Christine closed her eyes and tried counting back from one hundred, a trick her father once taught her to calm her nerves.

"_Christine, Christine..."_

At once her eyes flew open, everything in her frozen. That...that wasn't in her mind. _Oh, God, no, no, not again..._

"_You look lovely even in that undignified and unworthy get-up, my dear." S_he still couldn't believe the voice came only from behind the mirror – it circled her, surrounded her.

"Please...what...what..." She couldn't bring the question "what do you want" to her lips. It was too forward, too brusque. And she was afraid to stir his anger again, just afraid, afraid.

"_Do not be nervous, my Christine. Are you downhearted because of your senseless demotion to the role of the wordless page-boy? Fear not, sweet one. It shan't be for long. Tonight will be the sequel to your great debut!"_

"No...no!" She brought her hand mirror down with a crash, the glass shattering.

Meg rushed in at the sound, the upper half of her face almost submerged in the ridiculous large cap she wore for the show. Madame Giry loomed behind her, unnoticed.

Meg reached for the shaking, weeping Christine, pulling her away from the broken glass on the table. "Christine, what is it? What's happened?"

"It's him again, it's him!" Christine sobbed resignedly, her head back as she stood limply in Meg's grip.

"Shhh, shhhh," Meg calmed her, sitting her back down again. Once more Christine buried her head in the crook of Meg's shoulder. The little hand stroked her back. "Come now, come. Don't worry so! Mother and I will always be here for you." She tilted Christine's chin so that their eyes met. "And so will a certain someone else, too. A handsome sailor." Her eyes sparkled meaningfully, a lightly teasing smile on her face.

The tension seemed to drain from Christine's body as she returned the smile. It was shakier than Meg's, however. Still, Christine squared her shoulders, wiped her eyes. "I'll...I'll be all right. Please don't bother poor Marie about the glass, I can get it. Really, I won't cut myself. I'll be able to go on."

Giry watched as her daughter hugged Christine one more time.

The mother's lips were a hard tight line. Her eyes gleamed like fire as she stared at the mirror, imagining the dark figure behind.

* * *

Firmin and Andre were silently impressed from where they sat in the box adjacent to Box Five, watching the impassive figure of Raoul de Chagny as he sat with quiet defiance in the Ghost's box.

In truth, Raoul's mind was running faster than a deer through the wood.

He was a rare soul who was too intelligent and brave for his station. He'd have been better served were he allowed to fight his own way in life, using his sharp wit, his keen skills of observation, and his nerves of steel to advance.

Instead of scanning the crowd bored for the nobility present, or trading smoky smirks with the pretty ladies sitting across the way, he appeared to keep his eyes strictly on the stage. In reality, he watched carefully through the corner of his eyes every possible hide-away both in his box and around the theater, searching.

He'd failed Christine once, laughing off her story about the Angel. He would not make that mistake again. Oh, he didn't believe in an actual Phantom, but obviously some perverse, obsessed fanatic was running rampant. A stagehand, maybe...? That leering, lecherous old Buquet...?

His placement in the box was strategic. Instead of anxiety, what he felt now was a strange exhilaration.

He remembered her sobbing in the guest room at Madame Valerius's. Her fear and her utter vulnerability, contrasted with the strong grip of her hand on his.

There was fire in Christine Daae, but a tentative, uncertain one. The desire to shelter her conflicted with his desire to encourage her to stand tall, fight her foes.

But she was of no frame of mind to now. So her foe had become his. He would fight his foe and help his beloved. This was his solemn vow.

The lights dimmed. The opera began.

* * *

The audience murmured in anticipation of fireworks. Already the papers discovered Carlotta and Christine's rivlary (which in reality existed solely in Carlotta's mind). The house was now full, the onlookers excited to witness the two onstage, the sparks that would inevitably fly.

So far, both singers remained perfectly professional. A disappointment, but at least the opera was entertaining.

Meg was of course too swept up in the silent but ever-present role of the jeweler's assistant to make an objective assessment, but even so, she felt that maybe everything had worked out for the best casting-wise. As versatile a performer as Christine was, it was difficult for Meg to imagine her as the shallow and kittenish countess. Christine thrived in soulful, dramatic roles. Meanwhile, Carlotta with her glimmering, outsize personality fit the role of the countess like a glove. It was as if the role were written for her.

La Carlotta twirled around the stage in what Meg, with her love of all things pink and decorative, found a gorgeous gown, but people like her mother found groan-worthy and extravagant. Meg did wonder briefly how Carlotta was able to keep her head upright wearing that stiff white powdered wig as tall as a small hill.

"_Serafimo – away with this pretense!" _Carlotta saucily pulled away the loose skirt covering Christine, tossing it aside to reveal her breeches. The audience laughed at the reveal, at the masculine pose the delicate Christine struck.

Meg's eyes gleamed with pride from where she mock-giggled to the jeweler. Although Christine did excel in drama, she handled the subtler but more physical comedy of Serafimo beautifully. Her dancer's training suited the role to a tee, and maybe there was the touch of a dashing sailor about the daring smile and head toss she gave Carlotta...?

The philandering countess tickled her paramour with her fan, trilling with abandon. _"If he knew the truth, he'd never, ever go!"_

Suddenly a high, tight voice like a clap of thunder rained down on all assembled.

"_DID I NOT INSTRUCT THAT BOX FIVE WAS TO BE KEPT EMPTY?"_

A whoosh of stunned voices from the audience. Every neck in the theater twisted around in different directions, trying to spot where the eerie command came from. Raoul stood automatically, a look of steadfast concentration on his face.

Meg knew exactly where the sound originated from: the rafters, up near the chandelier. Did she see the shadow of a man there, just behind the chandelier's chain...?

"He's here, the Phantom of the Opera!" She couldn't help burst out, not that any of the other whispering and incredulous people present overheard her.

"_Meg!" _She heard her mother's voice hiss from the wings.

She blanched, expecting a round scolding for breaking character, even if the rest of the cast stared upward openly perplexed.

Instead, Madame Giry was actually beckoning her off the stage, her expression more fretful than Meg could ever remember it before. Not waiting a moment more, she hurried toward her.

Immediately Madame Giry pulled her to her side, her arms tight around her. The ballet mistress's eyes were locked on the chandelier, however.

From the stage, Meg could hear Christine announce as if in a daze, "It's him! I know it, it's him!"

Following the example of what she considered the cretins around her, Carlotta broke character by stomping toward Christine, pulling her back to the bed. "_Your _part is silent," she snarled. "Little toad."

The voice from above again, dripping with contempt. _"A _toad, _Madame? Perhaps it is _you _who are the toad."_

Madame Giry closed her eyes, muttering something under her breath. Then she turned to Meg. "Go and change for the ballet in Act III."

Meg was confused for a moment, but something in her mother's eyes made her nod quickly, then hurry off to the dressing room.

Madame Giry turned back slowly to the stage, watching with the helplessness of one stuck in a recurring nightmare, knowing what's coming but powerless to stop it.

The crew onstage managed to regroup, and start from the beginning of the countess's refrain. _"Serafimo, away with this pretense! You cannot speak, but kiss me in my—CROOOOOOAAAAAACK!"_

Carlotta's lovely hand clutched her powdered throat. Her eyes were circles of terror.

The sound she'd emitted was hideous, grotesque: a toad hopped in from a swamp.

The only noise now was his snicker, above.

All the pride and courage within Carlotta fought to the forefront now. She ignored the beads of sweat on her brow, the hammering of her heart, the whispers in the audience. Christine's gaping stare. Carlotta squared her shoulders and nodded to the conductor.

They hurried on. _"Poor fool, he makes me laugh! Ha-ha-ha-haaa! Ha-ha-CROOOOOAAAAAK! CROAAAAAK! CROOOAAAAAAAK!"_

As the croaking increased to the point where the audience wasn't sure to laugh or turn away, with Carlotta grasping for air, the manic laughter from above intensified. Christine paled, staring dead-eyed yet sympathetically at the valiantly struggling diva before her. Carlotta's face would have melted her harshest enemy.

Madame Giry slitted her eyes as the chandelier swayed menacingly back and forth, the light flickering, alarmed voices rising. _"Behold! She is singing to bring down the chandelier!"_

Her temper to her limit, Madame Giry was on the breaking point of striding forward and accosting that wretched voice, when a small "Mother?" made her turn around.

Her Meg stared with wondering, frightened eyes, craving comfort. The ballet girls were gathered behind her, the same look on their petrified faces. Meg looked like an angel in her pale green dress, a true country nymph.

_My girl. So beautiful, so innocent._

Like magic, Madame Giry melted, and pulled her daughter to her once more.

Meg tentatively put a hand around her mother's waist, touched but not used to such a demonstrative display from her mother in public. From over Giry's shoulder, Meg could see Carlotta collapsing and sobbing in Piangi's arms, who was escorting her off the stage, murmuring sweet Italian words of reassurance in her ear.

The managers stumbled into the mother and daughter, looking as if they'd been struck by a passing train. Andre wordlessly opened his mouth once or twice before stammering out, "The ballet, Madame?"

Calm again, Madame Giry released her daughter and nodded gravely. "The girls are ready, messieurs." Nodding vacantly, Andre and Firmin trudged to the footlights to reveal the temporary change in program – after the ballet, Christine Daae would go on as countess.

The chandelier instantly steadied.

Meg furrowed her brow, staring at Madame Giry. "Mother, how did you know the ballet would go on now?"

She shrugged dismissively. "After working here as long as I and seeing what I've seen, you begin anticipating the next move in his ungodly, eternal chess match. Now go to places, all of you!"

* * *

Joseph Buquet enjoyed nothing more than his bird's eye view of the stage from the rafters overlooking the backdrops. He knew vaguely people mocked him, jeered at him, but here? Here he could laugh back, laugh at the blurry dark faces in the distance, sitting there and staring – and staring at what? Trash, that's what. Gaudy dresses and faces drowned in makeup, that's all.

His fleshy lips curled into a rictus-like smile as the ballet girls vaulted onstage in a confused rush, tangling their feet with the departing managers and gob-smacked singers still onstage. The Daae wench had called for her lover and then been dragged off by the Giry bitch. Now Buquet could look all he wanted at his dancers, at his little Meg.

He tilted his head, smile widening, eyes slitting. He liked the view from above particularly now.

How prettily she moved at the head of the line. Such a graceful dancer. Like a little porcelain figurine.

A thump jostled him.

He turned to see that pale blue eye again, glaring now out of that infamous mask.

* * *

Meg felt a giddy anxiety as she mechanically went through her steps, dancing around the clutter of props still not taken away from the last scene. Everything was so surreal. She had seen a lot in her years at the opera house, but never anything so blatantly hectic and disorganized. And in front of the audience, no less!

But her deeply ingrained professionalism guided her, and her lovely face showed only the thoughtless delight any nymph would feel, dancing gaily in the moonlight.

Until the moonlight flickered.

At first it was but a brief flash, nothing out of the ordinary on this chaotic night.

But then another, longer.

Meg couldn't help herself. She glanced behind her shoulder.

She danced out of step, immersed by the shadow show she saw on the lovely hillside backdrop.

A man leaning away with his lantern.

The face with its fedora again.

The music, her fellow dancers, everything shrank to a dull nothingness compared to the terror Meg felt.

Shadow of a noose.

A cape.

The man with the lantern again, lifting his other hand in self-defense.

Meg was dimly aware others were watching now, that she was not the only ballet rat stumbling and distracted.

The fedora, the face, and the noose once more.

Then the body dropped.

In the midst of her screaming, Meg thought in a detached, dream-like manner how pathetically and somehow comically small Buquet's body looked dangling dead there in its noose, compared to the shadows that had preceded him.


	15. Chapter 15

After her first kiss with Raoul, Christine thought to herself in a haze that it hadn't mattered if there was one person watching or one hundred. Everything and everyone vanished. All she had or would ever need was this rooftop, and Raoul, always beside her.

Raoul felt that the years he'd lived without Christine were worthless, nothing. How could there be anything but her?

The timorous fear that made her almost incoherent just minutes before was gone, and he stared not at a horrified child, but at a woman. A happy woman.

She'd told him as much as she could – even now he wasn't sure what she spoke of was real, of if the trauma of whatever she'd endured shocked her into a morbid fantasy. He knew nothing more than he would suffer any pain, any hardship, so that he could give her his strength.

"Christine, I love you."

They stood in the cool night, an immense gargoyle with wings their guardian. Raoul looked at her. In the moonlight she was a multi-colored diamond. Her mint-green cloak covered the pale blue and pink pleated skirts of her modified costume.

She was unreal – some dark and misty fairytale from his youth he couldn't quite recall.

The heat from her frail arms as he gripped them comforted him that she was in fact solid, there.

All the while, she wondered how two blue eyes could gleam so bright in the dark. She forgot about who she suspected lurked behind the gargoyle.

A mischievous smile lit up her face, dark eyes dancing. "Order your fine horses, be with them at the door," she said grandly, giddily imitating Guinevere, with he as Arthur.

She whispered plans into his ears: _we'll go to the country, stay at the Valerius estate in Perros where Mamma's spinster sister now lives and can serve as chaperone._

Perros again. Just the two of them.

Raoul smiled. Already she was sounding more sure, the husky note in her voice containing a wild, confident fire. "To think, in just a few hours' time you'll be mine, all mine," he replied.

"Side by side, my love." She kissed him again.

Her cloak billowed as the strong night breeze blew through it. This brought them back to earth. A protective arm wrapped around her shoulders, Raoul escorted her off the roof. The young lovers took turns giggling like schoolchildren sneaking away from their governess and leaning into each other's sides passionately, until they disappeared down the roof steps back into the theater.

Erik imagined he could hear their echoed words, their plans of love, floating back up to taunt him.

He felt like he was down a dark, endless tunnel, watching the only ray of light, the only hope for escape dwindling away in the distance. Away from him, away.

Leaving him with nothing but a gaping wound bleeding out.

He stood shaking and swaying from where he still perched behind the gargoyle's head. His cape shrouded his shoulders like a bat about to plunge down to the earth.

He gave her his music. Made her song take flight.

_He _did these things. _He._

Not _him._

Erik recalled with sickening detail how warm the viscount's voice was – in comparison to his own icy and imperious tones, which must have frightened and repulsed her when he lunged at her with his ghoulish face revealed.

He recalled the viscount's gentle hands on her forearms, probably just as warm as the young man's voice – and Erik's, cold as death.

Oh, mad Christine, to fall in love with a warm voice and a pair of hands, and a handsome face alone!

This is what he desperately told himself: it was the handsome face and the warm facade she loved, not the man.

But somewhere, some rare genuine nugget buried beneath the theatrical madness, told Erik the truth.

She loved the man. And she did not love Erik.

It was this truth that broke him as he sat atop the gargoyle that night.

For the first time in years, Erik wept.

"Christine..._Christine..."_

He did not once wonder if the same shallowness he assigned to Christine dwelt in him as well, and that it was _he, _and not she, who loved a figment.

Betrayal coupled with heartbreak and - though he would deny anything so petty - injured dignity suddenly turned his burning tears to uncontrolled rage.

_You will curse the day you did not do all that the Phantom asked of you!_

* * *

Meg panted as she stood in line for curtain call. So many costume changes, so many shifts in program, so many nightmares come to life under blazing hot lights! The audience that remained after the Buquet fiasco seemed stunned by the night's events, and clapped perfunctorily instead of with true joy, unlike after Christine's debut in _Hannibal._

Christine herself had exceeded Meg's expectations – oh, Meg knew Christine could play the countess admirably, but she'd truly sparkled once she took her place in the leading role that night.

Some true joy flashed in Christine's face, her actions adorable and minx-like. Her voice was more carefree and joyous than a trilling songbird's. Her cheeks flushed beneath her powdered makeup.

Meg noticed that as Christine commanded the stage throughout the performance, the singer would dart a few conspiratorial glances in the direction of Box Five. There the handsome young man sat, gazing at her as though she was the only sign of water in a vast, scorching desert.

Despite tear tracks still evident in the makeup on Meg's own face from the terror she felt after Buquet's death, the ballerina couldn't help feeling a small thrill as she surmised the understanding Christine and the viscount had come to after the disaster.

Still, even Christine's prodigious performance was not enough to truly inflame the cautious audience. In truth, there was something mildly unsettling and incongruous to Christine's whimsical performance after the macabre interruption two acts before.

The rest of the players were just as tense as the audience, bowing mechanically, eying the theater uneasily.

_This will all be over soon, _Meg thought.

Then the chandelier began to sway.

Meg slowly lifted her head. She couldn't breathe.

She saw his bat-like outline far above. He was again in the rafters, just obscured by the rollicking fixture. She heard his laugh: loud, mad, despairing.

The chandelier teetered like a ship cast from wave to wave in a storm.

A clutter of panicked rising voices, shifting hurriedly from their seats. The company frozen solid onstage. Christine's face, a moment before so bright and rosy, dead white now, stricken.

A bellow from the specter above: _"GO!"_

There was a split second of eerie silence as the chandelier detached from its chain.

Then a chaos of screams as it fell to the earth, its crystals flying upward like a swan's wings.

Pandemonium reigned supreme.

* * *

A few hours before sunlight, Madame Giry entered Box Five.

The pandemonium was cleared.

She stared down into the seats. The ruin of the chandelier lay under the immense cover the officers from the _Sûreté _had managed to throw over it. Sawdust and detached crystals coated the entire house regardless. She could see the splintered wood of the broken seats peeking beneath the cover.

Three were injured, one dead.

She'd sent Meg home to spend the night with Christine. The singer had collapsed to her knees the moment the chandelier landed, her deep moan as pervasive and despairing as those crushed beneath the fixture.

Raoul had seen the two girls to his carriage. His face was tight and anxious. He seemed more like a general than a rich young nobleman, his movements strong and confident. He'd spoken in a low and sober voice to the policemen, asking pointed questions about what security measures they planned to take. Yet all the time, Giry could plainly see the concern and heartbreak for Christine staring out of his expressive eyes.

He exchanged one understanding glance with Meg as the two helped situate the passive and delirious girl into a comfortable position in the coach. Meg would watch over Christine tonight, taking over for Madame Valerius, who'd suffered a relapse from overextending herself when Christine returned.

Madame Giry secretly hated to part with Meg after such a night, but she made no complaint. She couldn't deny Christine Daae the right to a true friend with the weight of the world – in the form of that ornate and massive light fixture – at her feet.

The managers had looked as stunned as Christine, nodding dumbly to the sergeant asking them pressing questions. They automatically put on a good show for the remaining audience members, offering stilted condolences and assurances as the patrons flurried about, the ladies crying and fanning themselves.

But now – now – now that the space was cleared and the company finally at rest for what remained of the night – now it was only Madame Giry standing in Box Five.

Her lips were pursed, her eyes hard and unyielding.

She stepped to a panel situated behind a pillar. She felt for the latch, then pushed down and slid it open.

Inside was a long silk bell-pull. She yanked it harshly.

If Erik was in his lair, it would take him about twenty minutes to arrive.

Still as a statue of an angry god, Giry waited.

A full hour passed.

"Erik," she called out in a clear, resounding voice. Had there been chance witnesses around, they would have jumped at the commanding bark emitted suddenly from that still form and empty face.

If Erik was not in his lair, calling his name was usually the tactic to take. Erik seemed to always hear when his name was spoken. How, even Madame Giry did not know.

Forty-five minutes passed. She called again.

She waited only twenty-five minutes more. A miniscule amount of animation crept into her features. Her eyes scanned the area thoughtfully.

Several reasons could be in play as to why he did not appear. Maybe for the first time he was in an area of the theater where he could not hear her. Maybe after tonight, he was brooding especially hard – or perhaps consumed with guilt – and chose not to acknowledge her.

But...

But hope can stir even in the most world-weary individual.

Something about the stillness, the emptiness – not just the _physical_ emptiness, but the lack of _presence – _made Giry wonder wildly –

Christine did not love him. Certainly he knew that by now. And now he had perhaps tarnished his opera house's reputation forever, killed two people.

What if that was his climax, his grand adieu?

What if...

What if Erik was _gone?_

Vanished, left?

She waited a few minutes more, breathing shallowly.

Emptiness. Still, quiet, _peaceful emptiness_.

For the first time in years, hope dawned in Anahid.


	16. Chapter 16

The denizens of the Opera Populaire did not know what to do with themselves the following day. Never before, not even in the bleak days of the war with Prussia, did such a calamity befall the opera house so that it closed indefinitely.

Madame Giry knew – or was determined, rather – that the opera house would reopen, but the managers themselves were deeply unsure. When she entered their offices to inform them that a large congregation of confused singers, dancers, stagehands, orchestra members, and costumers were milling about in the foyer, waiting to hear their fate, she met the same confusion mirrored in the two men's eyes.

Lacking the mental energy even to sneer in contempt, Anahid left the office and took charge.

She announced to the crowd that the opera house would reopen once renovations were complete in the theater. In the meantime, everyone would be on paid leave (if the managers complained, she'd point out that the Phantom had seemingly disappeared, so they could save with the salary he would not collect). For the dancers who lived in the opera's dormitories, they would use this time to rehearse, rehearse.

Uncertain but taking some measure of comfort from Giry's eternally unflappable air, the crowd slowly dispersed.

Leaving Giry to head back to her flat, sore, stiff, and exhausted from a night spent awake with worry.

She found Meg returned from Christine's. The girl sat primly in their small kitchen space, her hands folded neatly in her lap. There were circles of fatigue around her eyes.

Madame Giry was just about to grace her daughter with one of her rare genuine smiles, relieved beyond words that her girl was back, when she recognized the look in the eyes staring out of that otherwise placid face.

It was a look that Erik and Julien had often noted lurked in Anahid's own eyes.

The look of an ancient cobra, usually complacent but stirred now, raring to strike and nothing could stop it.

"Mother, I'd like to talk to you."

In spite of herself, Madame Giry almost laughed. There was something so dastardly silly about that charming but unprepossessing voice – girlish, thin, innocent – and the grave look in those clear eyes.

But that look – not quite accusing, but penetrating nonetheless – sobered her immediately.

She knew what was coming.

Moving to the coat hook, Giry wearily removed her shawl, and said with her back to her child: "Yes, Meg, what is it?"

"You know who he is."

Giry bowed her head. She should have known how direct Meg would be. She was never any other way. "If I do or if I don't, it is of no concern. I believe he's gone now."

"Are you sure?"

Madame Giry did laugh this time, but it was bitter, empty. "Ah, are we ever sure of anything where he is concerned? Only time will tell, my daughter. But for now, we must only hope."

A slight pause. And then, "Who is he, Mother?"

"You must not ask me these things, Meg." Giry affected carelessness, unlacing her boots, but she would still not face her daughter.

This is why it surprised her when suddenly Meg's hand was on her arm, spinning her around. The placid face was gone, and the cobra was striking now. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes ablaze. "For God's sake, Mother! You are aiding and abetting a _murderer_."

Meg initially quailed at the way those dark eyes suddenly narrowed. But her heart beat fast in her chest with the inflamed memories of Buquet's strangled body, the crash of the chandelier as it crushed the bodies beneath, and a night spent by Christine's side. The destroyed singer had rocked back and forth in misery in her bed, weeping like she'd die of it.

Before her mother could rebuke her, Meg pressed on. "How long do we wait, Mother? How many more have to die? All because you don't want to reveal who he is?"

Madame Giry snapped at her now. "Listen, girl, it is not as simple as that! You don't know what you ask!"

Meg still would not back down. "Mother, please. Think of Christine. Think of Buquet. Think of the woman who lies dead simply because the ghost probably heard she was one of Carlotta's patrons and so he made sure she always sat beneath the chandelier, just in case he would one day grow mad enough to release it."

Madame Giry stared aghast at the girl. Could...could she really be so astute?

With a pang, Giry wondered how much about her daughter she truly did know.

"Think of them, Mother. Think of them, and help us."

Giry looked once more into that expansive green-gray gaze.

She wanted to crush her daughter to her chest again, but things were calmer now and Giry must be firm.

"If you love and trust me at all, promise me you won't ask any more questions about him." Her voice was expressionless, low and far away.

"But, Mother" –

"Promise me, Meg."

Meg looked at her mother. Truly _looked._

She saw, as usual, the ramrod-straight posture, the stillness, the impassive pale face with its long midnight eyes. Seemingly impenetrable.

But tilting her head, Meg also saw deep waves of despair within the darkness of those vast eyes, pallor about the skin that was not natural but imposed on her through years of secrecy, years of forbidden knowledge.

Meg saw that her mother was a dam. A dam built centuries ago with pomp and granite that had withstood intense flooding and disaster, with no damage visible.

But just because it was not visible did not mean the damage was not there. Beneath the chalk-white skin and grim stoicism there were cracks in the dam's facade, minute evidence of wear and fatigue.

Meg's first instinct after this raw assessment was to shake her mother by the arms, urging her to release her tension and reveal all.

But some wise invisible hand stopped her. Releasing the flood wouldn't strengthen the dam; it could very well burst it irreparably.

Giry watched as the interrogative light dimmed in her daughter's eyes. "All right, Mother," Meg said in a small voice. "I won't ask anymore."

Her mother's face relaxed. Giry's mouth twitched as she reached out and tucked a stray lock of Meg's hair behind the girl's ear. The sad gleam in Giry's dark eyes revealed she wanted to do more. She yearned to reassure, to comfort. But proud shoulders slumping just the barest amount, the dance mistress instead turned away to her bedroom.

Meg watched her mother depart. The young dancer stood quietly in the ballet fourth position, as always.

The mother could not see the daughter's eyes. If she had, she would have known at once what she was thinking.

_I won't ask her anymore questions._

_But that doesn't mean I won't find out._

* * *

A blissful period of peace followed. For Raoul and Christine, this period was cemented always in their hearts as the most thrilling, romantic, close moments of their lives.

During his time in the navy and his return to Paris, Raoul had often fantasized about revisiting Perros-Guirec again. He eagerly envisioned himself as he was as a boy, watching the seaside commune grow larger as the train took him nearer.

Yet it was Christine's face he studied in awe as they arrived. He waited until she'd sufficiently recovered her spirits after the chandelier disaster before purchasing their tickets and solidifying their plans. He barely left her that week, despairing at the lifeless expression in her sorrowing eyes.

Now those warm brown eyes gazed affectionately out to the green hills and rollicking waves of Perros outside the train window. Her pale pink mouth part-way open in anticipation filled too much of his soul to allow in any other sight.

"I can't believe it's been six years," Christine exhaled as the train jerked to a halt at the station. Her eyes were swimming.

Strong fingers squeezed hers. She felt giddy at the sight of his wry half-smile. "For some of us it's been even longer," he reminded her.

Yet still, still, his eyes were on her, not Perros.

Knowing the stories circulating about the two of them, Raoul was intensely concerned about Christine's reputation. Therefore, he rented a cabin close to the Valerius estate instead of staying with her there. He would not risk her honor further.

But the two lovers lent this situation its own romantic ritual. Each morning, before breakfast, they would meet on the beach of their youth, stealing a few moments alone in the early morning light before facing the day in its entirety.

Here in Perros they were in another world entirely. An older world, a safer world. Here Christine's sabbatical from the opera house and its repercussions could not touch them. Here Raoul could forget the letter he'd hastily left behind for his sisters and what their reactions would be to his taking up the company of the half-Jewish opera singer that appeared to be stirring up a lot of trouble in the newspapers.

Here they had just each other, and the sea.

Idalia Frisk, Mamma Valerius's older sister, was a sweet old dame half deaf and with cataracts starting to obstruct her vision. She'd never married, never had a lover. She previously carved a career for herself in Stockholm writing anonymous poetry for gift cards and advertising copy, living in a boarding house with other single eccentrics until her declining health made her sister insist on placing her nominally in charge of the Perros estate, while the staff truly looked after the house and her. Sister Idalia spent her time in the kitchen drinking hot chocolate next to an open window, listening vaguely to the waves and seagulls, smelling sea salt air.

Very few people had lived such contented, full lives as Idalia Frisk.

Because of this deep contentment, she was not the inquisitive busy-body Raoul had feared she would be. Instead, she seemed always a little jarred by their presence, uttering a discomfited "oh!" whenever they entered the dining hall for breakfast or tea. Eventually recovering herself, she would cough and inquire with perfunctory politeness about these two strange but nice young people who were suddenly in her orbit. Christine noticed her hands shook a little, her smile genuinely friendly but a little anxious as well.

The young couple adored her. Her combination of utterly no curiosity about them and slight air of wishing them well but also maybe not quite so close in her vicinity gave them ample opportunity to rush away without leaving the impression of rudeness.

"If it weren't for you, I'd marry that Idalia Frisk," Raoul said one morning when the old woman suggested in her quavering, uncertain voice that the market she heard the servants speak of earlier was something two young people such as themselves really oughtn't to miss. But they'd want to leave soon, for by afternoon the fair would be far too crowded.

Whether on the beach or lost in a market crowd, the only people in Perros were Raoul and Christine, according to the thoughtless, intoxicated pair. It was as if they were walking hand-in-hand through a museum: the sea vista, sun-bleached rocky hills, bustling marketplace just pretty pictures, the backdrop for their whispered words of appreciation.

Young girls watching them in the street would sigh in pining wonder at these two handsome figures, moving and feeling quite obviously as one. To have that, they would give anything.

But of course, these girls did not see the shadowy demon, invisible to the naked eye but hovering over the two nonetheless, shading Christine's happiness as an umbrella keeps away the rain.

Raoul, however, always knew somehow when to whisk her away from the brink of abject misery when that shadowy demon pressed down too hard on her spirit.

It was difficult for her at first, to retrace the steps she'd walked with her father, revisit spots where he had sat with his violin, playing to her singing. But being with Raoul was reassuring. His sunny brightness illuminated the encroaching darkness, and the love she knew her father had felt for the boy made the whole thing seem indisputably _right._

They rejoiced in pointing out their old stomping grounds. There under that tree was where Raoul had taught Christine how to play cards, there upon that cliffside was where Gustav first told them about the Korrigans, "and there, right there, Raoul!" Christine pointed to a spot in the water one brilliant afternoon. "There is where you rushed into the sea for my scarf."

"Is it, then?"

"Yes." Christine twisted around, shading her squinting eyes with her hand. "Oh, look! I think that's where the log Papa sat on used to be! I think you can still see a little of the wood beneath all that moss." She turned back to Raoul and her smile faded and her mouth dropped open, her eyes comically wide with surprise. "Pray! What are you doing?"

Raoul's jacket dropped to the sand, and he started to remove his boots and stockings. "This is an important location, mademoiselle. Only one way to commemorate the occasion: a re-enactment." He finished rolling up his trousers to the knees and stood before her, arms akimbo. "Don't you think?"

Her brain stopped working as she looked at the dark golden hair peeking out from his shirt. The muscular bare shins. "Umm," her cheeks burned as hot as they had in that same place ten years ago when she first beheld his face. "I – I left my scarf in my room."

"Hm," Raoul pretended to meditate for a moment. Then his blue eyes – blue like the sea, blue like a jungle cat's, Christine thought with lust broiling in her stomach – brightened with inspiration. "Then I shall have to rescue _you_!"

He lunged at her. Christine shrieked as he swung her off her feet, the slim girl wriggling in his brawny arms.

Her head buzzed as he pulled her tighter then marched whistling toward the waves. Her cheeks were as crimson as the scarf in her room, her laughter like a madwoman's. "Put me down! Oh, you villain, put me down! How dare you!" Her hiccupping laugh diminished the impact of her censuring words. "Raoul! _Raoul! _Ahh!" She covered her eyes and kicked her feet as he crashed into the water, the splashing foam almost but not quite reaching her.

With a baritone battle cry he spun her around and around, lifting her high so that the water wouldn't ever touch her.

His cries, her laughter, and the sloshing waves created a joyous, summer-tinged cacophony.

"Had enough of being rescued?" he asked, still spinning.

"Yes, yes! I order you to cease in rescuing me this instant!" She struggled to catch her breath. She squeezed her eyes shut and leaned her head back. A glorious smile stretched her face, rich brown curls flowing down, almost to the waves.

Raoul stopped spinning.

After a moment, Christine opened her eyes.

Raoul's face was now deadly serious.

Before she could adjust to this new attitude, he turned sharply and hurried back to the sand, carrying her as if she were weightless in his arms.

He trudged up to a clearing by some rocks until they were obscured from plain view, from any chance wanderers.

He laid her down gently but urgently on the sand. He followed her down.

He propped himself up on his elbows above her. Her heart skipped painfully.

His lion's eyes were soft and fiery, solemn and eager.

He looked like he could devour her. Yet when he moved, it was only to brush her hair away from her eyes. The gesture turned into a caress of her cheek, crimson for another reason now.

Then the hand trailed lower, down her slender throat.

The instant that hot hand touched the nape of her neck, massaging her sensitive skin, she closed her eyes. A soft moan escaped her – soft, very soft.

She reopened her eyes when he stopped. The look in his gaze now was strained. Hesitant. Instinctively, she knew he was waiting for some sort of consent.

Wordlessly, she nodded.

His mouth was on hers, harder than it had ever been before.

In that moment, she could barely think. She saw, as if flipping rapidly through a scrapbook, her vivid childhood fantasies about Raoul. Those had been leisurely, tranquil, rose-colored, and vague in comparison with this.

This was pressing, real: violent _and _tender, urgent _and _revering.

She gripped his shirt collar, pulling it open further by one and then two buttons. His chest pressed against hers and she could feel the tickle of his curling chest hair against her collarbone. He smelled intoxicatingly of the sea.

She gasped in his mouth as his hands slipped into her bodice, gently but insistently pressing and cupping the sides of her breasts.

Her lower half writhed beneath his. She suddenly felt it, there: hardness. Real, human, alive.

Her groan was far louder now. Her characteristic timidity seemed vanished, as if she were a mouse turned into a wolf.

Then a strong gust of wind rushed against them, spraying sand over their bodies, and the unromantic squawking of a seagull made them rigid. They broke their kiss.

Their breath was haggard and Raoul leaned his forehead against hers. His eyes closed. Then he laughed raggedly. "I suppose taking one's love on the beach isn't as romantic as all those lurid novels would have one believe."

Strangely disappointed, she still managed a coy smile. "You mean to tell me, monsieur le vicomte, that you've read such stories?"

"Well, you know, those long nights at sea…."

The hands that had just moments before moved sensually beneath her bodice now tickled her under her arms. She shrieked mirthfully again, shoving him in the chest.

He rolled off of her, supporting himself with one elbow. He smiled ruefully. "Come." He stood, holding out a hand to her. Reading the dashed hope and desire in her face, he said seriously, "You deserve better than this, Christine."

Her sad but loving face gazed at him with reluctant gratitude. He stared at that dark cloud of hair as the wind blew through it.

She deserved the world, he thought.

Almost six months passed this way. Lust battled with honor, but always ended in laughter, teasing, and affection. They were deliriously in love.

But absolute bliss was not yet attainable to them.

He kept trying to speak of marriage, but she'd hesitate, bringing up his station, Mamma Valerius's frailty, her career. He would respond that he'd fulfilled enough of his promise to Philippe as he cared to, and he'd never wanted his blasted title. He told her they'd look after Mamma Valerius together; she would live with them. Christine could sing wherever and whenever she'd like. He loved her voice, and would be proud to have an ambitious wife with a strong career.

"Sweet, foolish boy," she'd whisper then, dark mournful eyes studying him. She wondered how he could be so good, so kind, so in love with her – and yet for someone who seemed so knowing and brave, so recklessly naive.

Of course, he'd never been an orphaned singer. Never been a woman without a station in life. So how _could_ he know that what he spoke of so simply and frankly would in the end prove an ordeal almost insurmountable?

And of course – of course – there was an even larger storm cloud always threatening to break overhead.

"He's gone, they say," Raoul would remind her, citing newspaper articles and what Meg reported in her frequent letters to Christine. "There's nothing to fear."

She'd bury her face in his neck, whispering with harsher intensity, "sweet, _sweet _foolish boy."

How to let him know that with this dark angel nothing was certain? How to let him know that at odd moments in the day, even holding Raoul's hand in the middle of a bustling market crowd, the suffocating fear she felt after wrenching off the mask would seize her?

The singing in her head stopped and no longer haunted her nights. But the memories remained.

She could not visit her father's grave.

Gustav and his tales of the Angel of Music were sullied for her now. She was robbed worse than if the Phantom had ripped her entrails from her.

All that remained, that glistened as brightly as it had since she was a child, was Raoul. Unlike the Angel, unlike her father, Raoul was _real, there, solid, alive – _and _honest._

Her father was cold in the ground. The Phantom's touch was cold. The tombstones that traced the steps of her past were cold.

Raoul's touch burned her.

She would hold onto that fire with all her strength if need be.

That fire, that passion within him, that he wanted to use to encourage her to stand strong and fight for herself, ironically sheltered her too much. She let him shepherd her, and so swept up was he in protecting her that he did not notice how violently she came to depend on him.

She eventually followed his lead. Pressing, murmured words, and she acquiesced. They arrived back in Paris just in time for Christmas.

* * *

Meg's letters during this period were as effusive and chatty as the girl herself. By these letters alone, one could surmise that the July tragedy had not altered her bright and inquisitive personality at all, or her childlike bursts of affection.

She gave very detailed accounts of the renovations after the chandelier's fall, of how with Madame Giry's guidance the managers skillfully avoided lawsuits from aggrieved family members and traumatized audiences. Carlotta had also taken a sabbatical, rebuilding her confidence singing at private concerts in her native Italy, Piangi always at her side.

And again, there was no sign, no word from the menacing figure who started the entire ordeal.

However, with Piangi, Carlotta, and Christine gone, there was little to pull in audiences for an opera once renovations were complete.

And so, once again, Firmin and Andre deferred to Madame Giry's judgment. They put on a ballet instead.

The ballet chosen was a recent composition by the Englishman Petrie, an adaptation of Charles Dickens's _David Copperfield. _Italian export Carolus Fonta played David, La Sorelli his true love Agnes, and Meg was the addlepated but sweet child-wife Dora.

What Meg failed to mention in her letters to Christine was that this was her greatest role yet and a turning point in her career.

Although she spoke not of it, critics certainly did.

"_What is so puzzling about Mlle. Giry's career," _Charles Bisset, the most influential critic in the _Queue _said in his column, _"Is how she has as yet to take the stage in a leading role. Is it a fear of accusations of nepotism on her mother's part, a fear of upsetting La Sorelli on the part of the managers? Ever since she was a girl Mlle. Giry has shown tremendous promise, and she's never carried herself so ably – so adorably, so proficiently – as she does as Dora._

"_Her trained grace combined with an undeniable natural energy and openness makes Sorelli's Agnes seem so cold and stale in comparison, though the prima ballerina executes her steps as technically well – and dully – as always. Mlle. Giry has always excelled in brisk turns and small jumps, combined with intricate foot-work. Because of her small frame, in the past she may not have always been the most flexible dancer, but her Dora shows marked improvement there, particularly in her pas de deux with Fonta in Act III._

"_This spirited and sprightly dancing, in comparison with Sorelli's much more sedate movements, fits the flighty character of Dora perfectly – while the heart and soul evident in the pretty girl's expressions (thankfully the managers are aware at least of her beauty, and never fail to capitalize on that in silent roles in the opera) give the character the proper soul and depth required to make her far more than a one-note ninny._

"_One can readily understand why David falls under this Dora's spell. This reviewer and his fellow audience members certainly did."_

His notes were echoed in other columnists'. While La Sorelli seethed and wept, Meg became more than a promising leader in the corps de ballet and was for the first time seriously talked about as a soloist.

Fear of nepotism had indeed been part of why Giry had heretofore held back the reigns a bit on Meg's career. But truly, she was too distracted over the years following Erik's instructions and protecting his secrets to spend too much time advancing Meg's prospects.

Now, however, with ballets the only source of entertainment available at the opera house, and – more importantly – Erik's absence freeing up her time, Madame Giry could focus more on allowing Meg to shine.

Ballets had never been as great an attraction to Parisian audiences as the opera. Careless subscribers felt it redundant to spend a night watching dancing alone when operas combined both dancing and singing into one. However, with the positive notes Meg and _David Copperfield _received, the crowds became larger and larger at each showing.

Moreover, once the Opera Populaire reopened, a morbid subset of citizens was eager to take in the Phantom's domain, as one visits an exhibit at a freak show.

The chandelier was not yet replaced, and Firmin and Andre relied heavily on candelabras, which succeeded in adding a softer and more mysterious glow to the scenery.

And so, through a combination of positive publicity and a curious populous, Meg's star quickly rose.

It was not modesty that kept Meg from mentioning this in her correspondence with Christine. The young girl was merely still too swept up in the goings-on around her, too preoccupied trying to find ways to discover the Phantom's secrets, to fully take in and enjoy her growing success.

Still, maturation was showing in small ways. She no longer trailed her mother quite so often now. More often than not, she was more comfortable taking charge of her own tasks, whether it was visiting Pauline to make adjustments to her costume or consulting the conductor on matters of tempo and pacing in the orchestra.

Yet it was still the same sunny smiling face with girlish eyes wide with glee that greeted Christine and Raoul when they returned. Raoul quickly grew fond of the petite rat, Meg taking the place of the little sister slot Christine once filled in his heart. "Mlle. Giry" was soon replaced with his pet name for her, "Flibbertigibbet." Meanwhile, she delighted in curtseying to him exaggeratedly, greeting him with a piquant "Monsieur le Vicomte" and sticking out her tongue.

Meg and Raoul both noted Christine visibly shrank into herself the moment she stepped out of the carriage onto the steps of the Paris Opera House again. Her eyes were everywhere around her, distrustful of every shadow.

Yet her fearful attitude slowly changed once Raoul finally convinced her to accompany him to the last showing of _David Copperfield _before the New Year and its new season. Raoul and Mamma Valerius had sat in Mamma's bedroom with Christine the morning before, the singer's contract spread over Mamma's blankets as the old woman read over the pages with the vicomte. They both talked Christine through the fine points, impressing upon her the fact that she herself had done nothing to deserve dismissing, and she'd come back in more than enough time for anyone to consider her absence nothing more than a richly needed vacation.

Christine nodded numbly, allowing Raoul to practically speak for her to the managers that afternoon, who with barely suppressed irritation agreed to extend Christine's contract.

Madame Giry, standing behind the frazzled gentlemen, frowned at the passive stance Christine struck, sitting staring at her feet as Raoul pleaded her case. Their behavior was reminiscent of a hard-selling lawyer speaking for his indifferent and glum client. Giry could tell the vicomte meant well, but his concern and love blinded him to the fact Christine would never grow stronger if he continued coddling her. And it was obvious Raoul wanted her strong. How to get across to the young firebrand that Christine was not the only one who needed to adjust her attitude?

Christine gripped his hand when they took their seats to watch Meg dance. Almost ten years later, Christine would express her regret to her friend that she did not fully appreciate Meg's breakout role, too nervous scanning the rafters, too busy studying the large gaping absence where the chandelier once hanged. Meg forgave her instantly. She would have felt no differently were she in Christine's place.

As it was, Christine at the time only vaguely took in the sparkling young girl twirling about the stage, bright curls bouncing with each step. Meg was a fiery phoenix in a herd of tranquil swans as she played first the charming coquette and then the struggling housewife.

But all of Christine's senses were spent focusing on the air about her, listening for an ominous word from above, watching for a shadow rushing by to the side of her. But as the show went on, Christine relaxed.

Nothing. She felt nothing. No presence, no whisper in her ear.

After the curtain call, Christine whispered to Raoul, "There's somewhere I must go." And without another word she slipped through the departing audience members, disappearing backstage.

She slipped the key into her dressing room door. She took a moment to try to compose herself, looking around her. The passage was dark, empty. Her breath was coming out in panting huffs. Closing her eyes she turned the key and entered. Hands trembling, she struck a match and lighted the lanterns.

She gathered all the courage hiding within her and stared into the mirror.

She stared for what seemed like hours, forcing herself not to turn away.

Stillness. Not eerie, not electrifying: just stillness.

Her own face staring back at her and nothing more.

At last she let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

And the first true smile since returning to Paris glowed on her face.

She knew somewhere deep inside that the rapture she felt was only temporary, but it was enough for now.

She opened her dressing room door to see Raoul standing outside. _He'd known._

Staring directly into his slightly questioning blue eyes, she said, "Well, my love? Shall we marry?"

He took her hand firmly in his.

* * *

**A/N: Leroux fans will note I changed Carolus Fonta from a tenor to a dancer. Artistic license, whee! Also, Petrie is the name of Herbert Lom's Phantom in the 1962 Hammer Horror film.**


	17. Chapter 17

And so came the Masquerade ball to usher in 1883.

Christine and Meg had survived a turbulent year under the same gargoyle-studded roof as last year's, and the year before.

Meg's personal trajectory in that time was no surprise – as predicted, she'd advanced considerably in her career, playing the sorts of roles good for a lead dancer of the corps de ballet to establish herself as a soloist.

Christine, however, had in twelve months flipped expectations so drastically it was as if a heroine from a romantic melodrama switched roles with the shy, awkward young beauty of January 1882. Starting the year as understudy in the ballet with a fair chance at a spot in the chorus, she ended it having made her debut in the lead role of an opera, been kidnapped by the infamous Phantom, and fallen in love with a viscount.

Madame Giry privately shook her head in disbelief at the two girls, so ambitious, so daring, so vulnerable.

They returned to their old habits this masquerade, turning their backs from the well-defined costumes of the shepherdess and moon goddess of last year to the usual bright vagueness of earlier years.

Christine was dressed in a beautiful gown with a skirt of sunset-colored tulle, wearing a tiara with a moon atop it again and a wand with a star. When pressed she called herself some sort of "star princess". Not too far a reach from last year's costume.

And Meg? Giry could only guess as she looked over her daughter. The girl wore a pink velvet jacket (pink, of course pink), a black top hat with veil, black tights with large pink spots all over, and riding boots. Some sort of equestrienne? Meg was surprisingly good on a horse for one who grew up in the Paris Opera House and who'd never even seen the country. Meg considered herself a good rider, visiting since childhood the horses in their stalls, Pierre the head of stables often taking the young girl for rides and giving her tips.

The ballet mistress couldn't help but feel a bit wistful as the celebration began. Last year Meg and Christine joined the ball hand in hand, constantly seeking each other out. Children.

Now Christine was with Raoul, staring at him with the eyes of a lovestruck woman, as the young man – dressed elegantly as a Hussar – spun her around in his arms.

Meg stood as merry and bright as always, but with a subtle poise about her that was different from last year. Her increased confidence at the opera house was evident in how she no longer cowered at the sight of La Carlotta or in quiet deference to the managers, but instead hobnobbed with them easily.

And she was prettier than ever, Giry noticed with both pride and a slight anxiety – Erik's absence did leave one less protector of her daughter's virtue around. But anyone daring to bother the girl, Giry noticed, was not only treated to the brotherly interference of one Raoul de Chagny, but by a dignified and distant coolness from Meg, leaving it clear she was not interested while still staying polite.

_Just one year_, Giry repeated to herself mystified. _Just one year has passed by._ She watched the two girls with a mixture of gratification in their accomplishments and regret that time flew by so mercilessly.

Still, overall it was the happiest masquerade so far Madame Giry ever attended.

As with the recent performance of _David Copperfield, _the masquerade ball was even more crowded than it usually was, thanks again in large part, Giry suspected, to the ghoulish fascination the public still held for the opera ghost.

Not that anyone anticipated his presence. Six months had gone by, and many assumed he was a freak incident, a transient madman who had moved on after his little charade.

How this transient madman was so familiar with the opera house to bellow from the rafters, cause La Carlotta to croak like a toad, and drop the chandelier on the head of an unsuspecting old woman, well, that was seldom discussed anymore. Public fascination surrounded the legend, not the truth.

Either way, Madame Giry had to admit that Paris outdid itself this year. She'd never seen such a turnout with such an eccentric and loud array of costumes.

Little Jammes was calling herself the "Triangle Girl", whatever that meant beyond carrying a triangle instrument and dressing up like some sort of peacock-colored, vaguely medieval sprite. Clownish Adele was dressed like a monkey, with cymbals she was not shy in clanging together, usually after sneaking up on an unsuspecting couple. La Sorelli was regal and cool-looking as the "Triton Girl," wearing a silver-blue wig in an up-do with a crustacean-like tiara on top.

The managers even went so far as to hire professional living statues to stand still throughout the night in dramatic and comedic poses along the staircase, dressed as fancy dress horses, 18th century fops, chickens, etc. Giry wondered how much these living statues enjoyed themselves as the hours passed by, revelers thoughtlessly partaking in drinks, dances, and h'ordeuvres all around them.

The grand staircase itself was covered in confetti, the foyer lit with every candelabrum in the opera house.

But in truth, the real draw of the evening, and the reason the managers were so anxious that the party should come off without a hitch, was the new chandelier now swinging proudly in the theater. For the first time in the Opera Populaire's history, small groups were allowed onto the stage during masquerade to view the new fixture, which loomed proudly and celestially over the refurnished seats.

Madame Giry, as always, chose to make herself into a far less ostentatious display. The usual black sequined cape was her only decoration. Tipsy patrons prodded her about it, and she'd always have to bite her tongue not to inform them that she'd spent far too much of her youth wearing sundry disguises, and she was weary of it.

But she was of no sour mood this evening. "What a night!" She declared happily to the group congregated at the bottom of the staircase, including her own Meg sipping daintily at her champagne, Andre in his ridiculous skeleton pirate (?) costume, Firmin the alligator, and Piangi and Carlotta.

The singing duo arrived back in Paris just a day after Christine and the vicomte. Her furlough had done wonders for La Carlotta's self-esteem. In spite of her innate bravery, she'd initially quailed about performing even at private parties after her humiliating disaster at the hands of the Phantom. However, all it took was Piangi's encouraging words – and the diamonds he'd loaded her down with, evident even now encrusted in the elaborate, seemingly arachnid-themed gown she wore – for her to take a deep breath, stride forward, and command her audience with her invasive vibrato. Piangi was as fawning as always, dressed tonight as some breed of sun god (although his pointed crown appeared to evoke Medusa with its golden serpents springing from it).

Once more Madame Giry was impressed and surprised by how easily her Meg was mingling now. "What a crowd!" She replied, all smiling teeth, as she nodded easily at the formidable Carlotta, whom she once always scurried away from.

"Such a relief that the…_horrid business _from before is overwith," Carlotta declared, as utterly confident – or desperately hopeful - as anyone else that they'd seen the last of the dreaded O.G.

"A toast!" Firming announced jovially, raising his glass.

"To our good friends," Andre graciously contributed.

"And to the new chandelier," Firmin eagerly added.

"May its splendor never fade!" Piangi bellowed.

"What a change," Meg sighed. Was there something wistful, almost…regretful in Meg's words? Giry knew her Meg still nourished a ferocious curiosity about Erik, and so could it be she harbored an unconscious disappointment his presence was gone from her life?

Madame Giry did not let herself dwell on this for too long.

"What a masquerade!" Andre cried delighted, staring at the spectacle surrounding them, the whirling figures, and the high, frenzied laughter.

Madame Giry's barely perceptible smile was genuine, satisfied. Yes, indeed. What a masquerade.

* * *

Just outside the side windows by the water fountain, Raoul and Christine stood alone, once more bathed in moonlight.

Christine's dark eyes glowed ecstatically as she clutched the small golden ring on a chain around her neck. "A secret engagement! What a thrill! Isn't it exciting?" She squeezed Raoul's hand – a little too hard, willing him to be as excited as she.

He was straining, though. "Christine, I keep asking you, why do you insist on keeping it secret? I've told you I don't care what my family will say."

Suddenly acting as though she were afraid the very trees could hear, she hissed, "Please, Raoul! Not here! Don't speak so loudly of…of it."

Raoul frowned. "Christine, whoever that maniac was clearly is long gone. Is that what's bothering you? You're afraid he's listening in?"

"Let's not argue about this."

"Who's arguing?" Raoul felt almost at his wit's end. She'd seemed so calm and sure after _David Copperfield, _but since then she'd been skittish as a cat. "I just want you to feel how safe you are! Safe with me!"

"I do feel safe!" Her answer was too shrill, her jerky smile unconvincing.

"Christine." His look was serious.

Christine dropped her cheerful façade and Raoul saw anxious anger. "Please don't pick at me right now! Why can't we just have a good time?"

Raoul's temper matched hers. "Because we can't, not if you're too afraid to tell the world we're en" –

"Fine," Christine interrupted, striding angrily toward the ballroom. "I only hope you'll understand in time." With a brazen toss of her hair she suddenly dived into the dancing throng, leaving him behind.

She felt defiant, reckless. If Raoul wanted to nag at her, she'd…she'd…she'd do exactly as she'd like, including keeping things she wanted secret…secret. She swung in and out of dances with figures in brightly colored costumes, they spinning her around the room with laughing cries. The room blurred around her.

The determined smile on her face slipped.

She saw a white mask.

Or did she?

Yes, the figure in the emerald green cape had a white mask on.

Her heart pounded.

Then a relieved sigh.

It was a white mask, but it wasn't _that _white mask. It covered the face too fully, and it might have whiskers drawn on. And the figure was too short.

But what about _this_ figure? This one was all in black. He had a white mask.

She turned around panicked to her next partner. Yes, he, too. A white mask on a body clothed in black.

And this one, too –

Her breathing was quick, sharp. She was close to hyperventilating and she felt her knees buckle.

They were all around her now, they were all him, and her lungs filled with air as she prepared to scream –

Suddenly warm, secure arms around her. She looked up dazed into sea-blue eyes.

And a sensation of safety like she'd never known filled her.

She buried her face in Raoul's chest as he rocked her back and forth on the dance floor.

* * *

Meg was surprised how easy it was to talk to La Carlotta. They were chatting now about their favorite seamstresses at the opera house, a conversation that started from their mutual compliments about each other's costumes.

Meg tilted her head as Carlotta showed her the diamond pleating on her own skirt and told Meg about the expert hand that stitched them in. Meg supposed she'd never really talked much with Carlotta before. In the past, Meg was always too preoccupied with keeping away from the temperamental lady and staying close to the dancers, and Carlotta was too focused on the spotlight to take much notice of one more white tutu twirling about the stage.

The ballet dancer, for all that she'd matured and become savvier in the six months that passed, was still too innocent – one might even say ignorant – of the intricacies of ambition to realize that part of Carlotta's geniality might now owe to Meg's own recent successes. Carlotta now considered Meg – not an equal, very few people were equal to herself – but _worthy _of condescension. Unlike Christine or one of the other lead singers, Carlotta had no fear of getting upstaged by _this _one. Singing and dancing were different arenas, different battlegrounds.

Plus, there was something disarmingly charming about the little Meg's genuine directness that appealed to Carlotta. She'd rather the girl wasn't so pretty, but again, Carlotta decided she was no threat.

The singer even deigned to lay a hand on the girl's arm, pointing to the staircase. "Look, my dear! That fool Andre is trying to capture everyone's attention."

Meg frowned to herself at the way Carlotta spoke of the manager. Monsieur Andre might not be the most impressive figure Meg ever met, but he certainly always showed Carlotta every consideration and admiration. Seemed a bit ungrateful on the diva's part to call him thus.

Still, Meg turned her attention to Andre, who was indeed trying to speak over the din, holding up a pocket watch and beaming benevolently. "Thirty seconds, ladies and gentlemen, until midnight!"

At once, almost the entire party (excluding those canoodling with lovers outside and curious lurkers on the stage) gathered around the grand staircase.

"Twenty-five! Twenty-four! Twenty three! Twenty-two! Twenty-one! Twenty!" Everyone chanted in happy unison. So enraptured was Meg she failed to notice her mother approach and look fondly at her wide-eyed child with her brilliant smile.

Raoul and Christine also gathered near at the opposite end, Raoul securing a champagne flute for him and Christine. His fiancée was smiling again, and so all was well with the handsome Hussar.

"…Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five!" Meg in her excitement even dared to squeeze La Carlotta's gloved hand, which the diva allowed as she was too distracted with her beloved Ubaldo pressing a kiss to her other.

"Four! Three! Two! One!" The glasses were raised, and Meg cried out as loud as she could in her small voice. "Happy New" –

A shocked hush suddenly rippled through the crowd, preceded by gasps.

The horde of revelers parted like the red sea all down the staircase.

And Madame Giry felt so very, very cold as she saw why.

A tall figure stood at the top of the stairs, resplendent in the most ornate and gruesome costume Meg had ever seen.

He was Red Death in person.

Red everywhere: red velvet doublet, britches, stockings, shoes, immense feathered hat, tassels, and cape. Black and gold ornaments dangling from the doublet lent a flash of color beyond red, along with the white ruffles on the voluminous sleeves. A black cowl surrounded a skeletal mask so realistic it looked as if a man dead for centuries walked among them.

He held a libretto as red as his costume in one of his elegant hands.

Everyone knew, somehow, without being told. Before one word was spoken. Everyone – old and new to the opera house, employed there or otherwise – knew.

Meg could not even find speech enough to declare, "He's here." She was pulled toward the side of the staircase's bottom by her mother, who held onto her tightly next to the cowering managers.

A moment of dead silence as the red creature stood on the center step, surveying the crowd through the black holes in his mask.

At last he spoke.

"Why so silent, good messieurs?"

This quiet question sent more shivers up Meg's spine than anything else had: more than his entrance, more than his voice from the rafters, more than Buquet's body, more than the chandelier.

His voice was elegant, polite, smooth, electric, and beautiful, strangely _beautiful_. Unearthly.

And more threatening than a thunderclap.

Meg's heart beat like a jungle drum.

He continued speaking as with a sort of feline grace he slowly descended the stairs: towards the managers, towards them.

"I would not leave you for good, my friends," He assured them. "Have you missed me? I only took a brief sabbatical, I assure you, much like other cast members here. To rest my nerves. And!" He lifted his libretto high. "To finish my opera: _Don Juan Triumphant!"_

Meg just barely kept back the irrational shriek when quick as lightning he threw the libretto down to them, which landed in Andre's fumbling grasp. "That is the finished score," the figure continued, just a foot away from them now. He smelled of dark earth. The expressionless death's head was a blinding white amidst the blood red. "Not a note needs fixing, not a lyric needs changing. My instructions are clear: casting, costume designs, and other sundry directions are listed throughout. I advise you to comply. I remind you, there are worse things than a shattered chandelier!" He raised his finger high, and the crowd around him involuntarily shrank back at the gesture and the words confirming his identity:

For the first time the Phantom publicly revealed his physical self, buried as it was beneath his costume.

He turned away from Meg's group to the opposite end of the stairs. He gestured to someone there. Meg looked.

"_Christine!" _She couldn't help call out. During the stunned moments following the Phantom's entrance, Meg had forgotten about her friend. She stared at her now.

Christine's face was an open book of frozen terror. White as the living death's head that beckoned her, she seemed to glide toward him, almost as if by his very will.

So odd were the circumstances, so sudden, that even the protective and quick-witted Raoul did nothing but stare aghast at the scene.

Meg watched the pair – Red Death and the soprano – closely. She suspected everyone else did as well.

The air was thick around the two. For what seemed like an endless amount of time they locked eyes.

Then his hand shot out and clutched a chain around Christine's delicate neck Meg never noticed before. A ring hanged there.

In a snarl more vicious than any hound's, Erik announced, "Your chains are still mine, mademoiselle. You will sing for _me."_

He tore it ruthlessly from her throat, causing her to gasp in shock. This appeared to break the spell of stillness over Raoul who lunged for her, sweeping her away from the Phantom as the specter raised his fist high and suddenly hurled it to the ground.

Meg did scream now along with others as the thick cloud of red smoke erupted from his hand.

Madame Giry pulled her away, whisking her toward the dormitories, pushing through the crowd scrambling frantically for the exits through the crimson fog.

The last Meg heard of the figure was his almost childlike cackling as he was left alone in the foyer.

Madame Giry had only one despondent thought running through her mind as she pulled her Meg to safety.

_Oh, Erik._

_Why...why?_


	18. Chapter 18

Meg continually tripped over her own feet as her mother dragged her back to their flat. Her mother's speed, the stampeding crowd, and Meg's own shock at having seen the Phantom so close made the dancer now about as graceful as a stumbling drunkard.

She regained enough composure once they arrived at the flat to start directly in on Madame Giry. "Mother" –

"No," Madame Giry surprised Meg by barking. Inside, Giry's mind was a whirlwind. _Don't see the excitement flashing in her eyes. The energy about to burst out, itching to take action. See only what you must. Don't dwell on his return. DON'T._

"No, Meg. I know what you are thinking. But we are not going to discuss this. Not tonight."

"But mother"-

"But nothing. Go to bed."

Meg almost laughed at the ludicrousness of it all. "To bed? After all this? No! Christine must be protected! We must see to it that" –

"_We?" _Unlike Meg, Madame Giry did laugh, harshly, but her eyes were ferociously serious. "There is no _we_, Meg. _You_ are to stay out of this. Completely. You hear? You may think, mademoiselle, after your recent success on the stage that you are mature enough to take on this burden. Think again, child. As long as you live under _this _roof, in _this _flat, you will do as _I _say. Understood?"

Never before was Madame Giry so heated in her manner. She was a dormant volcano that finally chose to erupt with searing lava.

When she looked back at Meg she saw right away that even the novelty of the mother's anger did not quell her once obedient daughter's determination. The girl's pale emerald eyes blazed and hardened, and like her mother, her own cheeks reddened with temper.

The two stubborn ladies locked wounded yet fighting eyes. Madame Giry tried to read her daughter, but for once Meg's expressive face mirrored the usual stony mask her mother wore. There was nothing there to read but the hurt anger in her child's eyes. At last, Meg cast her one last look and then retreated to her room – rapidly, fiercely, without a word.

Her door slammed shut, reverberating like a bullet.

Giry stepped outside the flat and almost swayed as she shut the door behind her. The fury that had moments before consumed her deflated like a hot-air balloon. She felt like a gutted fish.

Then, closing her eyes and willing away her despair, Madame Giry wearily returned to the foyer to help clean up yet another of Erik's disasters.

* * *

The custodial staff all kept their heads down, muted. They looked out the corner of their eyes down the hall, where the managers were heard shouting at their staff.

After the night's fiasco, Andre and Firmin's terror turned to outright fury. They must capitulate; Giry knew they must. Erik's opera would be performed. But apparently, not without loud, strident objections from the administration.

Giry smiled grimly to herself, nonsensically imagining what a pair Firmin and Andre must look now, shouting at each other and brandishing that thick libretto while dressed as a pirate skeleton and an alligator.

She surveyed the foyer, where only bits and pieces of confetti and decoration now remained. She clapped her hands. "Very well, everyone," she announced to the janitors. "That is enough for now. I believe we all deserve to go to bed. We shall continue in the morning."

Sighing gratefully, the custodians left in record time. No doubt to try and eke out as happy a new year as they could after this inauspicious beginning.

She yearned to be close to Meg. To see wiped away by magic that hardened, furious look in her incredible eyes. To see her features soften into the pertly sweet expression that made life worth living.

Giry hurried down the hallways toward her flat.

A familiar baritone, husky with worry, called after her backstage. "Madame Giry, Madame Giry!"

She turned around for a split second and looked at the speaker. Then, heart racing, she picked up her pace again. Raoul could hear the true terror in her voice. "Monsieur, don't ask me – I know no more than anyone else."

He rushed forward. His respectful but urgent hand on her arm stopped her. "That's not true. You've seen something, haven't you?"

_Oh, monsieur le vicomte, you have no idea._

His persistence, his open honesty, made her deeply uneasy. Perhaps if she were to sell hard the image of the frightened old woman – "I don't know what I've seen...please don't ask me, monsieur." There was a deliberate quiver in her voice.

"Madame!" Raoul's voice was thick with impatience. He obviously did not buy her pitiful act. "For all our sakes," he pleaded.

Madame Giry finally looked into his eyes, studying him.

He was still dressed in his Hussar costume. _He must have been in conference with the managers, thus comprising one of the figures they yelled at in their thoughtless rage._ Every line in his face and in his posture bespoke his earnest desperation, his wild yet controlled courage.

And finally, unwillingly, she let in the thought that had circled her unacknowledged since first meeting him.

_He reminds me of Julien._

With that she felt a sharp pain in her chest and she closed her eyes, inhaling swiftly.

When she opened them again, Raoul was glad to see they were empty of any pathetic show of cringing. They were frank, fathomless. "Very well. Come with me to my office."

* * *

Raoul felt ridiculously as if he were almost an intruder on sacred ground as he and Giry walked through the empty dance studio to the office. As if he were witness to something not meant for an outsider's eyes.

The dance floor was vast and the polished wood shined in the darkness, the long bars connected to the wall-length mirrors serving as the only decoration.

His heart felt like stone whenever he thought about mirrors now. Only conjurors and lunatics played with mirrors.

He was filled with confusion and shame. He'd doubted Christine. Thought whoever stalked her was no phantom but a twisted, perverted mind who traumatized her into believing him something fantastical. And true, this man _was_ deceitful, cowardly – but obviously something more, as well.

The novel feelings of guilt increased his resolution to do something, everything for Christine to make it up to her.

They at last reached Giry's small office at the back of the studio. Like the studio, there was little decoration, just neatly filed schedules and ledgers lined up on a shelf by the old mahogany desk. Giry seated herself at this desk now. She silently gestured for Raoul to take the seat opposite her.

Irreverently, he was reminded of his few years at boarding school, on the occasions when he was sent to the headmaster to answer for some boisterous act or another. _This must be what her little dancers feel like when they're summoned here, too._

He waited for Madame Giry to speak.

She stared ahead at nothing for several moments. He'd never seen such deep, melancholy eyes. Christine's in her torment came close – but there was something harder, and yet at the same time more resigned in Madame Giry's.

Then a slow blink and she began without preamble.

"It was years ago. There was a traveling fair in the city. Tumblers, conjurors, human oddities..."

She recited this as drily and unemotionally as one would a grocery list. But at Raoul's prompt to go on, a flash of pain – a patient in pain but lost in the fog of anesthesia – crossed her face as she spoke.

"And there was...I shall never forget him...a man...locked in a cage..." _Not a man, a boy, just a boy..._Madame Giry vanquished the thought swiftly.

The darkness of the small office, lit only by one candle, seemed to weigh the more heavily on the two within.

"In a _cage?" _Raoul felt chilled to his bones.

She nodded, eyes scanning that faraway fair in her memory. "A prodigy, monsieur! Scholar, architect, musician..."

Suddenly another memory returned to Raoul: the first time he played chess with his brother. Raoul recalled the kind and methodical way Philippe pointed out just how he had cornered Raoul's king into checkmate. Once Raoul could get past his temper at having lost, he listened to Philippe, truly listened. Suddenly this vast jungle of wooden royalty, this game that had seemed but an exercise in bedlam, now suddenly took shape, had meaning, purpose. Structure.

He had that same feeling of awakening now. "A composer," he murmured.

A nod from Madame Giry. "And an inventor too, monsieur. They boasted he had once built for the shah of Persia a maze of mirrors..."

So impatient was he that he did not notice how her voice almost choked on the words, her face bitter and tormented. "Who _was _this man?"

She swallowed and closed her eyes, concentrating on something. She was fighting...fighting Raoul? Herself? At last she seemed to breathe again.

"A freak of nature...more monster than man." She spat the words out hurriedly, as if they were distasteful to her.

_That face! So distorted, deformed, it was hardly a face in that darkness. _Christine's words on the rooftop six months ago came back to him. "Deformed?"

"From birth, it seemed."

Genius, composer, architect for a shah, musician...and deformed. With his skill and intellect this man could have held the world in the palm of his hands...but he was deformed. He could have been famous, lauded for his inventions, millions would have flocked to him, eager for his approbation and his love...but he was deformed. The only people who stared at him did so not with awe and envy but for a cheap laugh and a fright.

So genius had turned to madness. And a brief glimmer of beauty, of opportunity – of _Christine – _had turned to obsession, to murder.

"My god," Raoul said with infinite sadness.

"They never found him – it was said he died."

Raoul stared at her sharply. "But he didn't die, did he?"

The candlelight threw Giry's angular face into stark relief, and outlined her bone structure as if she, too, were a death's head. A sorrowing death's head haunted by shadows from the past. "The world forgot him, of course, as the world forgets everything after a time. But I never can. For in this great darkness, monsieur," she gestured all around them. "I have seen him again."

Raoul nodded, face hard. "And this is our Phantom."

Madame Giry seemed to shake off whatever spiritual anesthesia she'd been under. She shot up from her desk and was heading out the door. "I have said too much, monsieur...and there have been too many...accidents."

Raoul was incredulous. "Accidents?" He asked with bitter irony, standing and looking after her.

"Far too many."

She was out the door without one look back.

Raoul ran after her blindly into the studio. "Madame Giry...!"

He lost her to the darkness._ "Madame Giry!"_

* * *

Giry leaned against the flat door, eyes closed and head back.

_A calculating trickster, that's all I am._

She'd not told him any outright lies, she assured herself. Just omitted the whole story. After all, what good would her paltry part in the proceedings really do anyone now? Just possibly cement her doom and more importantly Meg's.

Not that she thought the vicomte would betray her trust. At least not intentionally. But he was in love, and that made him irrational. As pressing and eager as he was, she noticed he failed to press her about _which _city the traveling fair was in, _when _the Phantom disappeared, and just _why _Madame Giry happened to know about the maze of mirrors in Persia.

But he was intelligent. As time went by, he would learn to see past his emotions and investigate the details.

She was sure Erik would give him plenty of opportunity for that.

Despite the arguments she told herself, she still felt guilty. Even with his crimes, his murders, she felt guilty calling Erik a freak of nature, an oddity. But she was angry, and she wanted to let Raoul know she was _not _to be aligned with Erik.

But there was something else, something deeper in her guilt.

As she looked into the vicomte's face as she told her altered story, she felt like she was lying straight into Julien's.

The devotion, the willingness to forsake his title and family all for his beloved, the dark golden hair and clear eyes...ah, if she and Julien had borne a son, how like Raoul he undoubtedly would have been...!

In almost a trance, Anahid crossed over to the cupboard always kept locked. She felt for the key among the many on the chain looped into the belt on her dress.

She sat and opened the drawers slowly, then lit the two candles close by.

First she gingerly took out the yellowed letters from the slats in the cupboard. They were silly, passionate letters Julien wrote to her in the short time they'd been together, during the few occasions when he'd been called away overnight for work. Just silly, precious notes of explanation, of love.

Next she stared into the washed out, gray and white photograph of Jules Giry, staring back at her with the noble eyes she'd sworn she just saw in her office.

She touched the glass carefully above those eyes, caressing him with her gloved hand. _"Forgive me, Julien," _she said in her mother tongue. _"Forgive me for the lying coward that I am."_ Her voice was so soft even Meg, standing watching from her partly opened bedroom door, could not hear the words.

After a few pensive moments of Meg watching her mother's back as the older woman's fingers trailed the lines of her father's face – and in plain view replacing the letters in their slats – Meg withdrew unnoticed back to her room.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: My long-time Tumblr followers might recognize this chapter as a slight revision of the oneshot I wrote ages ago, "Fire Dance With Me." My sort-of plan when I wrote it was to include it as a chapter in a longer story, so hopefully this is a smooth transition.**

**I'm pretty much skipping the Notes II/"Twisted Every Way" scene to get to where Christine runs off to afterward. **

**This is inspired by a scene in the _Twin Peaks _TV series prequel movie _Fire Walk With Me. _I borrow a lot of the dialogue and just twist it around a bit. **

* * *

_"Christine, Christine, don't think that I don't care, but every hope and every prayer rests on you now…."_

Christine felt something bursting inside her. The tension of expectations and demands and suffocating, unearned love bubbled inside her.

All around her were stunned faces. Moments before they'd all been a clash of rising, entwining voices. The frantic chorus pressed against Christine's ears mercilessly. Carlotta and Piangi cornered her, screeching about her supposed complicity. Their breath scorched her face and she felt dizzy and primal at the same time.

Then she heard another voice cry out above the others, like one demented: "If you don't stop I'll go _mad!"_

Dimly Christine was aware it was her own voice.

Then she'd rambled incoherently, rocking senselessly in the chair Raoul led her to. Christine reached for Raoul, circled back to Raoul, hunted Raoul with her hands on his.

The others looked at her mystified, a strained hint of sympathy even in Carlotta's face. "She's mad," Carlotta said softly, without the cruel bite Christine expected.

But Raoul...Raoul was firm.

He wanted her to play an active role in the ang – in the _Phantom's _end.

Before she erupted she tore away from her darling Raoul, the monstrous Carlotta, the frantic managers, the contrary Madame Giry, that wretched office.

Tears blinded her as she ran down the corridor, past surprised and scornful opera denizens.

Where could she turn in this moment? She was afraid, _afraid. _Afraid of what she might do, might say, afraid of falling to the floor and screaming like some rabid animal of the underworld, afraid, _afraid._

No one. No one to turn to. No father. No angel. How unfair that at this moment, _this, _when her reserve of strength seemed vanished there was no one nearby she could dare face. Who would accept her, sobbing, shaken, enraged and embittered? Pale and beleaguered, messy curls strewn about and sticking to her damp cheeks.

She was no tantalizing siren singing with the voice of an angel now; and she wasn't the strong, independent fighter Raoul wanted her to be. Even Mamma Valerius could not provide much comfort these days. She slept most of the time, and when she was awake she needed tending to. The old woman in turn could not tend to Christine.

Yet right now Christine was a child: a loud, angry, belligerent child. And children need care, she told herself perhaps a pit petulantly. _Can't someone just let me cry...?_

Instinct like a small but firm hand fell over her. Rapidly now the chaos was clearing, and Christine hurried toward the only source of comfort she needed right now.

* * *

Meg stretched her leg on top of the ballet bar in the Giry home. Compared to the other dancers' dormitories, the Girys' living arrangements were a bit more spacious. Oh, it was no luxurious suite in a hotel at the center of Paris, but Meg often concurred with her mother: the space suited them nicely.

True, the sitting arrangements weren't the best – in order to install the dance bar, they'd had to clear out the small room that served as their parlor. A few wicker chairs served for whatever company dropped by – which other than Meg's friends from the ballet, was few and far between.

Two portraits graced the wall's peeling dark green wallpaper, generic portraits of a ship in a storm and a bowl of fruit.

No pictures of family. The only photographic evidence of a family dwelt away from human eyes within the cupboard: the portrait of Jules Giry.

Meg looked at that cupboard now.

_The letters Mother looked at after masquerade..._

Although Meg had as usual been eager to accompany her mother to the manager's office, anxious to hear what the new letter from the Opera Ghost foretold, Madame Giry insisted Meg remain behind. After Erik's return – not to mention his more reckless and unhinged behavior, presenting himself at masquerade in gruesome splendor, so different from the cautious lurking creature of just six months before – Madame Giry was less and less inclined to include her daughter in the happenings around the opera house.

The elder Giry knew this only increased her determined young daughter's fierce curiosity and concern for Christine, but as long as Madame Giry was firm with her, she felt sure Meg would stay in line.

At least, that's what the mother fervently hoped, wide awake at night, staring into the darkness. She unconsciously listened each night for Erik's envelope to fall from the trap door above the kitchen table next to Madame Giry's bedroom. And finally last night...

Meg reached for her toes on the bar. She gazed distractedly into her clear eyes reflected in the mirror. She'd reached a sort of detente with her mother. On the surface, Meg was as obedient as always, maybe even moreso. But gone was the effusive stream of chatter Madame Giry was accustomed to when they returned home from a long rehearsal. It wasn't that Meg was deliberately pouting; while certainly there was a glumness to the girl, Madame Giry felt instead that Meg was studying her – not with malice, but with yearning, with that damnable, ever-present, utterly endearing curiosity.

The sharp light in Meg's eyes continued to unsettle her mother. Two sweet candles that became torches.

As Meg stretched and contorted along the wall, her mind was with her mother and the letter, while her heart was prying open the cupboard with her bare hands and digesting the contents of whatever those letters told.

_How to get the key away from Mother...?_

She started at the quick light rap on the door. She straightened herself and headed quickly to open it.

"Christine?" The pale, splotchy face stared back at her with the wide dark eyes of a feral child, wild and lost, beseeching.

Meg noticed she was trembling.

Christine in turn looked at the wondering pale eyes, the fragile frame, the glossy reddish-blonde curls. Meg's cheeks were tinged with red from her exercise, and her body was standing at alert, always, _always _in the ballet fourth position.

Warmth and sunrise broke through the storm as Christine took her in.

Meg's heart broke at that beautiful voice now so weak and uncertain.

"Meg…are you my best friend?"

Meg's eyes widened and her lips parted in a disbelieving half smile. "Of course!"

She gasped as Christine dove for her and grabbed her in a tight embrace.

All the ballerina knew in this moment was that Christine was hurting, her form shaking with tears as she buried her face in Meg's hair. And so Meg stroke Christine's, rocking her back and forth gently.

"What is it, Christine," she asked gently. "What's wrong?"

Christine squeezed her eyes shut as she pressed her face into Meg's little shoulder, saying, "I just want a friend. Just one friend for one minute."

Meg leaned back to look into Christine's eyes, taking her friend's face in her hands. She brushed away the tears with her fingers. She gave Christine a lop-sided grin. "How about a friend for the rest of your life?"

Christine laughed, releasing tension bit by bit. "Yes! That's what I want." She squeezed one of Meg's small pink hands—so full of the warmth and vitality that she, Christine, lacked now—as she sniffed away the rest of her tears. "Thank you, Meg."

Meg continued stroking Christine's brown curls. There was a gleam in the dancer's eyes now – an ancient look of wisdom. Somehow she knew what Christine needed to hear. "You possess far more strength than you realize, Christine. When the time comes, you'll do the right thing, you'll see."

Christine played with the frill on one of Meg's shoulder straps. "You know, even when I think about your face I feel better," she said in a small voice, with the hint of a smile on her face.

Meg tilted her head. "Do you want to talk?"

Christine quickly shook hers. "No," she said decidedly. "No, I want to watch you dance."

As Christine sat curled on the Giry floor against the mirror, watching Meg spin spiritedly and fluidly around the room, she was reminded of why she'd always wanted to come to the opera house. The enthusiasm, the drive, the beauty that had at first been crushed by her father's death, then by the truth about the Phantom and his nature, was reawakened by this small young beauty, her breathtaking dance, and her heart the size of an empire.

The calm she felt when she knew Meg was the friend she needed expanded, turning into resolve, a sort of wisdom of her own.

Yes, Christine would do as Raoul wished.

She would trap the Phantom.

She would protect herself, her fiance, the opera, and Meg.

For if the madman destroyed the opera house, where else would a young elfin girl with golden-red curls and the soul of a warrior dance and dance and dance?

And who else would hold Christine in her small arms as the world burned around her?

Christine sat and she watched.

The figure that stood staring at Christine, watching her watch Meg, quietly departed into the shadows.


	20. Chapter 20

The widow Comtesse de Leon, formerly one Laverne de Chagny, was composed and remote. She sat at the head of the dining room table in the de Chagny's Paris estate, which she'd presided over since her husband's death drove her back almost fifteen years past. After her brother Philippe's death, she took over as unofficial head of house.

Her stiff white coiffure was piled atop her head like an impenetrable iceberg. Her long lineless face told her age of fifty-three years more than any wrinkles could – the pinched look to the high, patrician cheekbones and the severe expression did not evoke youth. Hers was a face with the bone structure of beauty but none of the attraction. Her thin, aquiline nose with its narrow nostrils was bred to draw back in disdain. Her pale eyes were nearly the same shade of blue as her baby brother's, but where his reminded viewers of the ecstatic, tempestuous, lively summer sea, hers were the blue trapped within a glacier – forbidding, frigid.

Her hands she held up in a tent-like triangle now, tapping her fingers together in what would have been interpreted as a nervous gesture had the bland expression she wore matched. Her hands were glorious – long, shapely, and delicate, as unwrinkled as her face but somehow more inviting and animated. The fingernails were shaped into perfect ovals, shown to perfection by her shining manicure (no colored polish, which she deemed cheap and common).

Fine China was the aura of Laverne – tasteful, delicate, refined, and brittle.

Aside from her nervous hands, her displeasure was clear in the drawn-down corner of her exquisitely shaped but thin lips.

This was Laverne in repose. Her cold eyes watched the Grandfather clock at the back of the long room from beneath highly arched eyebrows.

However, the instant she heard Raoul's footsteps heading down the hall toward the manor's staircase, she took a deep breath and her expression changed swiftly. Her face took on a practiced, artificial look of maternal concern. She stood. She was much shorter than one would anticipate judging by her impressive face, her bird-boned frame incongruous – but not comical – in comparison with the long grave head it held erect.

She walked with studied casualness – but quickness – out of the dining room to catch Raoul. She carried the newspaper her elbows moments before had rested on as she sat in thought.

"Raoul," she called in her low melodious voice. Much like her appearance, her voice was beautiful, plaintive, and empty.

He was halfway down the stairs but stopped. His shoulders slumped the barest amount. His head bowed, the perfect picture of bemused exasperation scarcely held in check.

He turned to his elegant older sister, who stood with an air of martyr-like majesty atop the stairs, one lovely hand just slightly touching the banister.

He put on a rueful half-smile and reluctantly ascended a few steps more. Out of respect. "Good morning, Laverne. Getting rather a late start this morning, I'm afraid. I must get my beauty sleep, you know." His eyes lacked their usual twinkle when bandying words with others. Hard as he tried to convince himself he could, Raoul was never able to kid Laverne – at least, not without strain and aggravation.

Almost thirty years Raoul's senior, she'd been a beautiful, remote blur in his childhood. Still, her presence dominated. Even when she was away with the Comte de Leon, Raoul's second sister Roberte – ten years younger than Laverne and ever quavering with fear and awe of her elder sister – was talking of Laverne, of how Laverne certainly wouldn't approve of Philippe taking Raoul to Monte Carlo, of sending him to school so late, of buying that article of clothing for him. Of Philippe consorting with opera dancers, gambling, not settling down.

And Philippe would purse his lips and stare ahead of him out the window with the same bemused look with which Raoul regarded his sister now.

But then in Laverne's fortieth year her husband died without leaving Laverne any children. His younger brother inherited the de Leon estate. Laverne, head held high but with heart scorching, returned to the de Chagny home and with amazing ease supplanted any weak authority Roberte ever held as the female head of house.

Laverne never shouted, never lost her temper. But still, quite quickly Raoul noticed the stormcloud in his older brother's face during her constant gentle commentary on his life, the tight way he held himself in, the way he'd stride out and not return until morning. The frequent trips to the seaside with Raoul, to Perros-Guirec.

Laverne felt for her siblings not the love of gentleness, but an emotion much like the grip of a possessive hawk's talons on some precious wild animal. To flourish and to carry on the family name with proper respect, they must understand and obey and sit still within the wisdom of her grip.

She felt a stab of genuine affection and moreover pride as she looked at Raoul now. He could have anyone, her cherished little brother. His handsome lion face was as appealing as any she'd ever seen, and his quick toiletry this morning gave him an utterly masculine yet somehow boyish fly-away look, his hair slightly mussed, his coat open, his long white scarf hanging loose about his neck.

Yet the anxious look in his eyes and the newspaper she held brought her back to the issue at hand.

"My dear brother," she began, voice smooth honey. "I've been meaning to speak to you for a while now, but you are always just out the door."

What snappish reply could Raoul give to such a wistful admonition, deliberately holding not a tone of accusation? He only clamped down his jaw tight, grinding his teeth. This was Laverne in her most dangerous of moods and the one hardest to fight against, thanks to her gentle facade.

So he said nothing, simply waited.

She inhaled and continued. "There is a very hurtful column about you in the paper this morning."

She almost flinched as he laughed suddenly. "Good, that should do for a chuckle," he said jovially. "Here, why don't you cut it out for me and we'll laugh over it later? I really am in a rush, Laverne" –

"It is about the Daae girl," she said with quiet evenness.

Again she was met with silence. She had as yet to mention Christine to him so frankly outside of innuendo.

Raoul felt that if he were to tighten his jaw muscles any more, his teeth might crack.

Laverne continued. "They say she was with you at the masquerade ball. With you, and all those depraved souls."

"What of it?" He was brusque.

"They say she wore a ring around her neck. From you."

"What of it?" Raoul repeated, almost petulant in his defiance now.

"That the other man then tore from her neck."

Raoul immediately dropped any pretense of impassivity, almost lunging up the steps to face her. "There is no other man," he spat out. "Just a poor creature driven insane, who's created a fantasy world for himself with Christine."

Laverne was at her most serene when those around her were at their most tempestuous. "So you say," she said in almost a whisper, staring dreamily down at the banister, sweeping her hand over it, back and forth.

"It is the truth, Laverne. Christine is the most innocent soul I've ever known."

With that her eyes shot to his looking like a serpent's, mocking and despairing by equal turns. "You fool," she muttered darkly.

Raoul tried to ignore the chill he felt.

Seamlessly swallowing the hardness that had come over her features, she evoked sad motherliness again. "Raoul, I said nothing when you went off for six months with the girl. I figured it better for you to get such expeditions out of your system while you are young, hoping that you'd be wiser than your brother when you reached his age, God rest his soul. But a ring, Raoul? A _ring_?" She shook her head sadly. "Surely it will only end in this girl's heartbreak, if she is as gentle as you advertise."

"How can it end in her heartbreak? I intend to marry her."

"Impossible," she said in a clinically clipped voice.

"How?" Raoul said goadingly. "We are both free agents."

"Yes," Laverne said with a delicate laugh. "She certainly possesses a free nature to entertain such high hopes for herself."

"Believe me, Laverne, it is I who's had to do the convincing. She shied away from marriage for a long time fearing such a reaction."

"Then she is wiser than you," Laverne shot back, meeting his gaze with penetrating fire. "She knows her place. An opera singer. An opera singer with a scandal attached to her. Raoul, you must be out of your mind."

Raoul threw out his hands in agitation. "For what? Marrying for love? People have done just that before, you know."

"But not to a _Jewess_." Her face was full of expression now – righteous, frenzied. "A Christ killer, Raoul!" She mechanically clutched the cross at her throat, a deliberate tear in her voice as she spoke.

Raoul's look was dark. "I refuse to dignify such primitive doggerel with a response." He turned away and marched down the steps again.

Quick as lightning she was behind him, aflame now with holy purpose. "Jews are" –

"Perfectly fine to conduct business with, to transact with, in other words only when convenient for you to interact with." He spoke without glancing at her until he reached the bottom of the stairs and then turned to her sharply. "Well, no more. I will take no part in this bigotry." With contempt and hurt heavy in his face, he inched toward her and said in a low voice, "I know you lied to me in that letter you sent me after her father died. Saying she was gone from Paris."

The only movement Laverne made was to aim her glare sideways.

He chuckled joylessly. "You don't dare deny it, do you?"

"No," she said simply. She met his gaze again. "Why should I? I was only thinking of you. And of the family name."

"Admit it," he barked. "It was only the family name you cared about. It's all you've _ever_ cared about."

"Well, someone has to," her shout matched his, frail motherliness vanished. "Your dear departed brother broke my heart by dallying with opera whores, but never, not _once_ did he consider marrying one of them!"

"Perhaps if he had he would have at least died happy!"

She shook her head resolutely. "Philippe would never have been happy sullying the family name. He'd have died first."

Raoul wanted to argue with her, tell her she was wrong, but he didn't know if she was. Philippe for all his casual and friendly ways had possessed a hard cold line of propriety – _surface_ propriety, which allowed him to indulge in the Paris night life but never let it see the light of day.

Raoul begrudgingly admitted to himself that Philippe would have undoubtedly taken Laverne's side.

But it made no difference. None at all.

"Regardless of what or what not Philippe would have done in life," he said at last, "I know what I intend to do with mine." He picked up his hat and reached for the door.

"And you intend to marry her?" Her voice was deadly quiet.

"Yes."

Her face was pinched and she was shaking. "Think what you're doing, Raoul! Think how it will break not only my heart but Roberte's!" Laverne always spoke of Roberte, who quietly acquiesced to her sister and dwelt in quieter areas of the house, as though she were a cherished angel to be petted – and treated her in person with snappish contempt.

Raoul rolled his eyes and opened the door. "I'm sure Roberte will sob for a few minutes and then comfort herself with the latest society gossip at one of her friend's soirees."

"Raoul, if you marry that girl, you shall be disinherited." She stood straight and still. "Philippe left me in charge of the estate. It is within my power."

Raoul's face was inscrutable.

"Think, Raoul. Think carefully. Is she really worth you losing your name?"

He feigned thinking deeply for a moment. His face was very grave. Then brightening he said, "Yes!" His smile was frank and happy. He tipped his hat and winked at her.

Then he slammed the door shut behind him, leaving the elegant statue to blink and fume.

* * *

Raoul's late start was nothing compared to Christine's. She lay down to sleep the night before full of knowledge that the first read-through of _Don Juan Triumphant _awaited her in the morning. That knowledge was a constant hum in the back of her mind. Between that and tending to the only semi-lucid Mamma Valerius, Christine's nerves were frayed.

She'd read the part earlier and acknowledged that, yes, hers was the biggest role, bigger even than Don Juan's. It was also a role full of raw sensuality. Nausea simmered in her stomach. She knew, of course, that he who claimed to be an angel sent by her father was instead but a plain man desiring her love, but the full depth of his lust had not yet fully revealed itself to her.

And so she dreamt that night.

She dreamt of her father, standing in his graveyard, playing his violin. He was mournful, alone. He could not see her from where she stood outside the cemetery gates.

The solitude of this once effervescent figure struck her to the bone.

Finally he lifted his eyes to hers.

They were mismatched – one brown, one icy blue. They held all the sadness of the world, adoring and pleading.

Christine awoke with tears in her own eyes. Then she hurried to ready herself, noting the time.

* * *

Meg sat with the libretto open on her lap, tapping her foot absently. She wore her usual tutu with a light shawl wrapped around her shoulders to fight off the bite of the cruel January cold, evident even inside the opera house. She looked around the stage.

She and the principals were all gathered together stage right, sitting in rows. They feigned attention to what Reyer was instructing them. In truth, Meg knew they must all be thinking of the man behind the music – the specter who somehow knew their greatest strengths as performers and who crafted roles just right for all of them.

It would have been flattering were it not also so invasive. Meg glanced at the costume sketches he'd made for her character. There she was, sketched in provocative poses, holding a tambourine in one hand, the other hand on her hip. The face was hers in the flesh, but with a saucy, coquettish expression Meg didn't think she'd ever worn in life. Possibly in _Hannibal_? Even so...

Invasive. Certainly invasive.

Meg started from her reverie as Carlotta sang rather sharply her first lines in a booming soprano, the diva always insistent on making an impression the first day of rehearsal.

That they were now starting made Meg look anxiously at the empty seat beside her.

Then she smiled in relief as the familiar blue cloak flew into sight as Christine hurried in, hood up, looking pale and disheveled. She wore her red scarf. Meg saw her friend's face soften at the sight of Meg eagerly patting the seat beside her.

Christine squeezed Meg's hand as the dancer smiled at her. There in Christine's eyes Meg saw everything – the nightmare, the guilt, the repugnance – without knowing what they were specifically. Meg only squeezed that hand all the harder because of it.

But all at once it was Christine's time to stand and sing. As usual, her voice rang out more clearly and ethereally than church bells – but this morning, with dark circles around her haunted eyes, her voice was just as empty.

Meg could see Christine was trying to disconnect herself from the words she sang, from the scene around her.

Now it was Piangi's turn. The tenor, looking frank and unassuming as always even in his usual ill-fitting, dandified suit, sang his cadenza with utter confidence.

And was blatantly off tune.

Carlotta dismissed Reyer's criticisms with contempt. "His way is better! At least he makes it sound like music!" The diva sat back satisfied, smiling contentedly as the chorus laughed in agreement.

Meg looked back down at the libretto thoughtfully. It was true, the Phantom's score was unlike any she had ever heard. At times the music crescendoed into downright madness. But then out of the jangle of discordant melodies there seemed to rise emotions Meg had never heard expressed so completely through song – lust, romance, pride, envy – all emotions that were frankly rather foreign to the young girl, which somehow made them more real to her.

Meg found she _liked_ the score.

Scanning the room now and catching the jeering faces around her, she realized she was perhaps the only one.

Her mother, standing to her right, addressed Carlotta in a dark voice. "Signora, would you speak that way in the presence of the composer?"

Meg felt Christine shiver beside her.

The ballerina felt herself grow cross at Carlotta's adamant stupidity as she answered her mother. "The composer is not here! And if he were, I would see to it" –

"Are you certain of that, signora?" Madame Giry tried to ask her. Meg could have told her mother it was no use. Such subtlety was lost on Carlotta, still rushing to her lover's defense as Reyer continually tried to correct him.

"Now, once again!" The frazzled director prompted Piangi. "Five, six, seven, eight" –

With renewed gusto, Piangi burst forth, "Those who tangle with Don Juan!" He looked as triumphant as the proud rogue he meant to play.

He was still wrong.

Meg couldn't help staring in disbelief, impatient as the rest. Usually she felt more understanding to those struggling with a new piece, but the fear quaking in her heart – this was the _Phantom's _score, the _Phantom's – _combined with the unprofessional air Carlotta and the rest treated the sobering occasion with irritated Meg. Christine was more lenient, oddly serene in her misery now. Even after the accusations Piangi had hurled at Christine a few days before, she was quietly trying to instruct him: "Not quite, signor. Those who_ tan, tan_" –

Suddenly there was a chaos of sound all around, everyone openly jesting and complaining, Madame Giry thumping her cane to no use, Reyer banging the piano keys in a frustrated attempt to corral attention, and Carlotta shrilly giving her own imitation of the unconventional melody.

Meg was born of this tumult, and only shrugged easily and took Christine's hand again. Her friend's face was blank but sheet white, in such deep distress it tore at Meg's heart.

She was about to whisper to her reassuringly when suddenly she...she almost seemed to smell something in the air...

The piano was playing. Playing perfectly the opening chords.

She swayed slightly in her seat. Her head was humming.

She saw her friend's face fade and blur, until Christine was but a white oval with a long dark brown halo...

Then her mind went blank and she remembered nothing more.

* * *

Christine sat paralyzed as with mechanical precision – like figures in a cuckoo clock – the company left their seats and stood around the piano.

The piano that was playing the opening bars of the first song from the libretto.

The piano that was played by no one.

Christine heard the voices swell in perfect harmony. Saw Meg twirl and kneel. Her friend's usually expressive face was jarringly empty, eyes wide and blank like a doll's. Even Madame Giry was turned into a puppet, standing beating the tempo with heartless, bloodless precision on her cane.

And yet Christine felt nothing. Only numbness.

She saw only a man standing alone in a graveyard, playing the violin.

She stood unsteadily and left.

* * *

Meg felt a jolt run through her not unlike in a dream when you miss the curb. Her head snapped up. A slight sheen of sweat coated her upper lip. She gazed dumbly around her.

Somehow, in some way, she was standing by the piano. The rest of the company was congregated there as well, murmuring to themselves and massaging their temples, apparently recovering from the same fog she was in.

Instinctively, Meg looked for her mother. Nothing was ever so unsettling for the young woman than seeing Madame Giry – always so composed and stoical – as evidently disarrayed and disoriented as the rest. The older woman's black eyes suddenly narrowed and her face was tense. She whispered some word in a language Meg had never heard before, whispering with a hissing vengeance. Meg had little time to process this when Giry addressed her sharply. "We have been drugged," she announced in a clipped voice.

Meg's stomach lurched as she suddenly remembered – "Christine!" She whirled around and looked anxiously over the crowd assembled.

No trace of the singer.

Before her mother could stop her, Meg dashed backstage. She ran down the corridors, breathless as she burst into Christine's dressing room without knocking.

There was no sign of her, except for a letter lying on her vanity.

Picking it up, Meg saw it was addressed to her. There was only one line.

She read it and a look of befuddled anxiety pinched her face.

Footsteps stopping at the doorway made her turn around.

Raoul was there, bringing a refreshing presence of vitality, strength. He was obviously informed of the..._odd_ interruption to rehearsal, and had echoed Meg's actions, seeing to Christine's safety.

Without saying a word, Meg held up the letter.

Taking it, Raoul read:

"MEG:

I have gone to Perros-Guirec. I must see my father.

CHRISTINE"

Meg did not need to hear him speak his plans as his eyes quickly shot to hers. He raced out the door once more. He left Meg standing as abandoned and frustrated as his sister, tortured by feelings of helplessness.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the long wait, but I've been sitting on this one for a while. It was originally going to contain the Wishing scene as well, but as you can see, it got a little long with the introduction of Laverne and whatnot. Now I have to rework my outline a little, grumble, grumble. I guess you can never stick too religiously to an outline, otherwise you'd end up with a Tyrion-Arya-Jon love triangle apparently.**

**Yeah, so I have no clue how Erik managed the hypnotism of the cast in the Don Juan rehearsal. So assume Madame Giry spoke out some infamous drug of Persian origin. I fail at research.**


	21. Chapter 21

Christine disappeared so thoroughly into her mind that she had no memory of purchasing the train ticket, boarding the compartment, and arriving at Perros that same evening. As she walked among the villagers through the winter fog, she felt as if she were floating above her physical self, watching impassively as she bumped and swayed into perplexed villagers heading home for the night.

She kept hearing a violin. She followed its tune.

She wasn't Christine Daae right now. She was Little Lotte, outwardly meek and quiet while inside yearning for glory. For an Angel.

She made her way down the streets, down the beach, toward the lonely cemetery at the top of the hill, where the Korrigans might be dancing even now.

Her hands were shaking.

She'd prayed...oh, she had prayed so hard for the Angel to come to her. That far off day over a year ago, when she stood in her dressing room and first heard his voice, happiness cascaded into her soul like a wave too large. And she'd laughed, and she'd cried.

The moment she heard that heavenly voice, it was as if her father was winking mischievously at her again. _"What, you silly girl, did you think your papa would not keep his word?" _She could almost hear him say. _"It's all right now, so don't you worry. I'd never leave you, my girl."_

Yes, her father promised her an angel. An Angel of Music.

At last Christine's methodical steps halted at the black gate. With a mask of indifference that covered a soul howling with regret and confusion, she stared into the graveyard. Very slowly she opened the gates.

_Her father promised her..._

* * *

As she approached her father's crypt, Christine tried saying goodbye. She tried.

Her gloved fingers trembled as she traced the name engraved on the sculpture of an angel in mourning: GUSTAV DAAE. So cold, so monumental...how dismally opposite of everything he'd been in life. She could have at least brought flowers, anything alive and colorful. He deserved nothing less.

Tears started in her eyes.

Then the violin that was in her mind was suddenly playing truly.

And just as in her dream, he was there.

Her father was standing on top of the cold stone angel, playing the violin.

Wearing a mask, staring at her devotedly with one brown eye and one ice-blue.

Her dream...

Her father...

Her Angel...?

"Have you forgotten your Angel?" He asked in the sweetest, most ethereal voice. Those mismatched eyes never left hers. He was grace incarnate. He was unearthly.

Tears coursed down her face. Never had guilt pummeled her heart so. Had she betrayed her Angel...her father...?

"I...I just want to feel the way I did!" She keened desperately, her own dark eyes pleading with his. "I want to feel like it's not all...all..."

"_Shhhhhh..." _The Angel assured her. He was now playing Lazarus, the tune her father had played for weeks on end after her mother's death.

"_Come to me."_

She stepped toward him.

Her heart skipped to the chords his bow plucked on the violin. She was his violin, his instrument. _"Come to me..."_

She was very near him now.

Vaguely she was aware a bright, strong figure was suddenly present at the corner of her vision. She wanted to see that figure more clearly, but the Angel was singing in that divine voice – not warm like her father's, but spiritual, all-knowing...

She heard that other voice speak: "Whatever you may think, whatever you may believe, this..._thing _is not your father! Let her go, for God's sake!"

The man's hands gripped her arms and they were warm, vital. Christine's head was still too clouded with the Angel's soft song, but the pressure of the hands on her made the image of the Angel shake and blur.

"Let her go! Christine! _Christine!"_

The life, the desperation, and the love in that cry made her bolt to earth. She blinked once and then turned.

Raoul was staring at her with strength, fury, and an all-encompassing love. The icy spell of the Phantom vanished. She felt warm again, alive.

"Oh, _Raoul!" _

She threw her arms around his neck.

And suddenly that angelic voice atop her father's resting place turned into a snake's venomous hiss. "Bravo, monsieur! Such spirited words!"

Christine hesitantly turned around and almost screamed. That heavenly image of her father was transformed into a scene from hell. The violin was gone – had it ever truly been there...? – and the Phantom now held a staff with a ghoulishly theatrical death's head atop it.

His eyes that had been so mystical, so ethereal moments before were ablaze now like a demon's. The thick smear of his disfigured upper lip snarled leeringly.

From the staff's skull mouth flew out an orange flame, just missing the pair from where they stood on the lightly snow-caked ground.

Christine did scream then, but her true terror came when the Phantom succeeded in goading Raoul, who advanced. "More tricks? More deception?" The vicomte's face was that of a lion about to pounce, fists clenched at his sides.

The Phantom only cackled, releasing another flame. "Come on, come on, Monsieur! That's it! Don't be shy!"

Frenzied frustration seized Christine. Why couldn't Raoul see this was just what the Phantom wanted? "You can't win her love by making her your prisoner!" Raoul cried.

He was but a few feet away from where the Phantom hovered. The two of them were at last face to face, nothing between them but a stone angel and a pike full of fire. Christine saw the specter's pale half-face curl into a self-satisfied grin as he raised the staff once more...

She snapped. "Raoul, come back!" Just as Raoul's words had brought her back to sanity just moments before, he too started as her hand eagerly grabbed his arm. He staggered backward. His eyes met hers with a rueful understanding.

He nodded. He put his arm around her shoulders, tightly, tightly. Yet she was the one who led them toward the exit.

"Don't go!" They couldn't see the Phantom's wretched expression as they hurried away, but they heard the fury broiling in his voice. "So be it! Now let it be war upon you _both!"_

* * *

The sky was very dark now. The brougham glided away from the coastal town, carrying Raoul and Christine far from the Phantom's threats and back to Paris.

They held hands silently for a long time. Life and sense were coming back to Christine by degrees.

Raoul watched in relief as the expressionless pallor left her face and was replaced with color, with a look of pensive awareness.

With a sigh she laid her head on his shoulder. "Raoul," she whispered. She squeezed his hand. "Thank you for coming for me. Thank you for being my hero once again."

He pulled her in tighter. "Nonsense. You are _my _hero. You're the one who got through my fat head and pulled me away. Otherwise..."

"Let's not think about it," Christine interrupted quickly.

They sat quietly for a few minutes more, listening to the rhythmic turning of the carriage's wheels down the road and watching the dark purple glow of the night sky as the horizon rolled past the window.

"I was so weak," Christine said at last in a small voice. "I...I'm sorry, Raoul. I almost went back."

He closed his eyes. "It wasn't you, Christine. It was him. His power over you."

"I'm so sick of this!" She suddenly barked out, fists clenched in Raoul's lap. "So sick of never being in control! I almost wish it _had_ been of my own volition, simply because at least it would mean I was making my own decisions for a change!" Her eyes widened as she realized what she'd said. "Raoul...I didn't mean that."

"Do you feel like I make your decisions for you, Christine?" His voice was soft.

She lowered her head to her chest. He tilted her chin up to stare into her eyes. "Christine?"

She fidgeted for a moment. Then she smiled sadly. "No. Not...not really."

"But?"

She drew in a breath. "I...I know intellectually that you're right, that your plan to catch him is our best chance at freedom. But..."

"But you're frightened?"

"It's more than that." The words poured out of her. "Despite everything he's done, to me, to Buquet, to that old woman in the audience, to everyone else, I...he gave me my _life _back, Raoul!" Her brown eyes stared pleadingly at him, begging him to understand. "At least he returned my voice to me, which always was my life, before father's death...well, you and father were my life, too, of course." She buried her head deeper into the crook of his neck. He smelled like spice and snow.

Very quietly she continued. "I guess there is a small part of me that wants more control, that wants to be the one to decide how to...rid myself of him. I'm sorry."

"Darling, stop apologizing!" Raoul said, rocking her in his arms. "You've done no wrong. Hell, I should have been more sensitive to all this. I've been taking it for granted that my anger at the man is yours, too. I just want you to know that everything he's done for you he's done for himself. To try to win you."

She nodded dumbly. It twisted something in Raoul. "Ah, there I go again. Don't think me unfeeling to his plight, Christine. The man's been through hell, no doubt. But under no circumstance will I let him destroy your life just to earn himself some hollow semblance of happiness."

His eyes were sharp and determined, staring ahead at his absent enemy.

Christine studied his face and felt crushed first by love and then by a new anxiety. "Oh, Raoul! I fear that I will destroy _your_ life for that same happiness!"

He blinked, coming back to earth. He was confused. "What's that?"

She was so pale. "Raoul, I'm worried about what will happen to you if all goes as planned and we marry, and..."

"And?"

"And your family shuns you." Before he could say anything, she added, "Oh, I know you say you don't care about that, but you might feel differently once it happens!"

He chuckled. "Ah, that! No fear, mademoiselle. Laverne and I hashed it all out this morning."

She sat up surprised. "You did?"

He stroked her hair fondly. "And yes, it happened as you predicted. A big blow-up and a threat to disinherit me."

Her crestfallen look contrasted with his cheerful nonchalance. "Can she really do that?"

Raoul shrugged, seemingly more preoccupied with running his fingers through her curling tendrils than the matter of his familial future. "Philippe did set her up as head of the estate. However, I could have taken over once I came of age, seeing as I'm the 'man of the house', and all," he said contemptuously. "But frankly, I never bothered. I've never much cared for the idea of looking after the estate, and Laverne's always been so good at it I never saw the need to." He contemplated the matter for a moment. "I suppose I could claim the estate if I wanted and just risk losing Laverne's glowing affection," he said sarcastically. "At the end of the day, I'll probably just get a proper, old-fashioned shunning from the de Chagny clan. Although Laverne is a determined one. I've no doubt that if she put her mind to it, she could succeed in wrestling my inheritance away."

A fond, speculative look came into his eyes as he tilted his head. "And I might just let her, too."

Christine started at him seriously. "Now, Raoul. I know you have notions about living the rustic, working man's life. But I'm an orphan forced to depend on others, so please believe me: it's not exactly a romantic way to live."

"Oh, I know, I know. But dammit, maybe this is a sign I _should _make my own way, join the rest of the human race instead of lounging about somewhere in between."

Christine smoothed his jacket sleeve. "How did you become so...so...oh, I don't know..."

"Foolhardy?"

"Well, that," she agreed jestingly. "But what I mean is...how did the young Vicomte de Chagny, born to a life of privilege, become so obsessed with the working classes?"

Raoul smiled somewhat wistfully. "I loved Philippe. Truly, I did. And I am fond of Roberte, and even Laverne in my own way. But," he sighed. "But they were so typical of their class that I never truly felt we were a family in the sense of...well, in the sense of you and your father, for instance. There was a layer of hypocrisy over everything...I was expected to recite all the correct formalities, behave within certain lines and look down at the people who didn't belong in those lines. Meanwhile, Philippe consorted with these very people and the next day he'd coldly read the paper and pass judgment on the revolutionaries as if _they _were the immoral ones." He shook his head, still mystified after all these years. "I was left to my own devices a lot of the time, and took to reading. _Les Miserables, _Olympe de Gouges, Georges Danton _..._When I compared what I read to what I saw in real life, to my own family, it was easy to choose how I wanted to live."

Christine's eyes were swimming. "And are you sure...over everything your family offers you...you choose me?"

His smile was the sun. "Yes."

Raoul's heart surged when he saw her face alight with happiness, emerging from the gloom that had hampered it before. "Then, my love, I choose you as well! With all my heart! I'm decided now. Truly this time. I _will_ play in _Don Juan."_

They kissed.

The trauma and horror from the graveyard transformed now into a deep understanding that would ground them throughout their lives together.

This feeling of union lasted them even when they arrived in Paris, and the police Raoul had wired to see if they could catch the Phantom coming back turned up with no sign of him.

* * *

It was only alone, at night, that Christine stared awake in terror. She felt sure that the dark angel's claws would reach up and devour her happiness from wherever he hid.

She heard his voice again in her dreams that night.

* * *

**A/N: Poor Christine.**

**Many thanks to Wild Concerto. She pointed out that Laverne probably wouldn't have that much control over Raoul's inheritance, and also encouraged me to explore more deeply how Christine feels tied to Erik. My plan was to add that in here anyway, but I don't know if I would have given it as much attention if Concerto hadn't pointed out the importance.**

**Again, future updates may be sporadic thanks to work and other intrusive real life things. But more chapters are coming, I swear!**


	22. Chapter 22

When Raoul headed to Perros to find Christine, he left behind in her dressing room a pent-up ball of worry, frustration, and an unfocused determination in the figure of Meg Giry.

The petite girl wrapped her lace shawl around herself like a child does a favored blanket. She shivered not only from the cold but from the fear and disorientation left over from the morning's events. Beneath the fright there simmered an indignant fury. How _dare _whoever this figure was _drug _her – manipulate her and the rest of the company! And worst of all, her _mother!_

Meg brought her tiny fist down in anger on Christine's vanity and immediately yelped as it landed on something sharp. She rubbed her smarting hand. She looked down at what had hurt her: one of Christine's hairpins.

Meg morosely picked it up. _Christine, please be all right!_

She absently fiddled with the hairpin. Her thoughts were in Perros-Guirec, which she'd never seen in person but felt like she knew intimately from Christine's ecstatic descriptions. Vaguely Meg felt the hard little hairpin in her hand, the grooves on the side. As she clutched it, something nagged at the corner of her mind, slowly growing.

Then her bright eyes widened mistily as a memory came to her. She stared dumbstruck at the hairpin.

She was a young girl, about twelve. She'd been giddy for days, ever since her mother told her she was to appear in the ball scene for the first time in _Il Muto _– as a lady, an actual lady with a fan and a beautiful dress, and a lightweight but still beautifully styled powdered wig! In this memory, she was anxiously and eagerly bouncing on the balls of her feet in front of an old black door backstage, staring wistfully at the lock. Behind this door were the wigs for the show, including the very wig she herself would wear.

Pauline and Reyer were possessively protective of the wigs. It was rumored some were made out of real human hair. They were kept far away from the eyes and busy hands of stagestruck little ballet rats. Trying her luck anyhow after looking this way and that, Meg gave the doorknob a jiggle.

_Drat. _Nothing. It was locked.

She fumed silently. Then she felt a quick tap on her shoulder.

With a frightened shriek she whirled around, expecting –

But no. She had not expected _this_ person at all.

Lajos the ratcatcher stared at her with friendly eyes and a gap-toothed smile. His black-gray hair looked like a crow's nest from where it erupted out of his flat cap. He wore a moth-eaten brown coat with patches on the elbow that smelled of damp earth. His trousers were too long, the cuffs drenched in black mud. His skin was a dark yellow where it was not smudged with dust and ash.

Meg felt her heart skip; not from any instinctive fear of Lajos himself, mind. No, as she looked at the spacy but nevertheless good-natured face of the lanky old man before her, Meg did not feel threatened.

However, he was part of the underground cellars almost as much as the Phantom was. She'd only had quick glimpses of Lajos over the years from where he lurked beneath trapdoors, as her mother emerged after admonishing him for allowing rats to get into the tutus. Seeing him in person above ground was akin to the Phantom casually approaching you and tilting his hat in greeting.

Meg swallowed the inappropriate giggle that image conjured and curtseyed politely. "Bonjour, monsieur!" This was the first time she'd ever spoken to him.

A laugh deeper than the cellars below answered her. His eyes were kind but unfocused, and his benevolent smile widened. He pointed to the door she'd moments before been trying to enter. "You want in there, eh?"

Hands clasped guiltily behind her, Meg smiled a small kitten's grin and nodded shyly. "It's locked, though," she whispered.

Another wheezing and booming laugh. He very briefly pat her head as though she really were an erring kitten. Then he waved her over to the doorknob confidentially. Again feeling no fear of this odd, friendly figure, Meg obeyed and followed behind, echoing his quiet air.

He reached into one of his deep pockets (that emitted a moldy scent Meg tried to ignore) and presented a surprisingly clean hairpin.

"Sometimes," he said with eyes twinkling, "When I come up here for a brief little walk, I find things like this on the floor. I collect them." He nodded congenially, as if agreeing with the wisdom of his own hobby.

Meg also nodded, pretending to understand. She was on the verge of concluding he was a bit mad and that this tangent had nothing really to do with the locked door, when his surprisingly deft hands snapped the hairpin in half where it bended. He held up the part of the pin that curved into wavy bumps. "You will need only this part," he rasped.

Then with an even greater delicacy of movement, he carefully picked up her little hand and pressed the pin into her palm, guiding her to insert it into the lock as you'd slide a wrench into a door jamb.

"Now," he said, his low voice calm and patient, suddenly an oasis of sanity. "You treat it like you would any other key. Which way would you turn the real key here?"

Meg scrambled to remember from the times she'd followed Pauline on her rounds. "To the...right!"

He bowed his head in assent and Meg felt an irrational spike of pride that she knew such things.

His hand very light on hers, he helped her turn the hairpin in that direction. "Keep it steady with your thumb," he advised her.

Ever a quick learner, she applied the appropriate pressure. Her cheeks reddened as the lock still wouldn't give. "It's not working, though!"

His voice only grew more calm and soothing. "Try pushing it in a bit further, then. Sometimes all it takes is a little repositioning."

Concentrating, Meg did as she was told, and then she gasped happily as she felt it click with something. "I think that's it!"

"Try turning it again."

Meg jumped up and down cheering as the most beautiful sound in the world reached her ears: the door unlocking! "Oh, monsieur, thank you!"

Serene expression ever unchanging, Lajos simply opened the door and walked into the long, narrow closet. He surveyed the hundreds of wigs lined up on their mannequin heads. Then he said, "Ah!" He pulled off a lovely pearl-colored one. It was not nearly as monstrously tall as the Countess's; this one was small enough to fit Meg's head. Yet it was lovely, with plentiful curls stacked in the back.

Meg clapped ecstatically. This was the one she would wear in the show, she just knew.

With the proud gravity of one crowning a queen, Lajos placed the wig on her head.

There was a tall mirror on the inside of the door. Meg approached it and studied her reflection. Staring back at her was a young girl with red cheeks, large staring eyes, and an "oh"-shaped open mouth, her head peeking out from beneath this elegant relic of the past. However, at the moment what she saw wasn't a child but a beautiful little lady, graceful and sophisticated in her powdered wig. She straightened her posture and tried to keep a straight face, intoxicated by the pretty image there. Then she fell again to giggling.

"Oh, monsieur! I thank you again! I thank you so" – She turned around and then frowned.

Lajos was gone.

This long-forgotten memory came back to her in Christine Daae's dressing room as though it had happened yesterday.

As Meg held Christine's hairpin and remembered, she saw something else in her mind's eye quite clearly:

The cupboard in the flat.

The cupboard with her mother's letters.

And in a rush came Buquet's body, the chandelier's fall, the drugging, Christine's terrified face.

She studied the hairpin again.

Much like the one from almost six years past, this had a side that curved into a perfect wrench.

"I've been so stupid!"

She clutched it tightly in her fist and fled the dressing room.

* * *

"Hey, there!" Adele called after Meg as she flew past her and Cecile.

Adele's impish grin as Meg skidded to a halt turned quizzical at the unnaturally bright fire that lit up the girl's flushed face. "Where are you off to, poppet?"

Meg stammered only a little. "Oh, um, Mother wanted me to grab some extra toe bandages from our quarters, and I plum forgot about them until now. She's not around, is she?"

Cecile smiled gently. "No, dear. She's in the manager's office discussing what happened during rehearsal. Were you all _really _drugged?"

But Meg was already a white blur hurrying away. "I'm afraid I can't talk now!" She threw over her shoulder.

Adele snorted, shaking a few of her russet curls. "Always in a rush, our Meg!"

Cecile's look was more speculative. "Hm," she said as she gazed after the dancer. Then lightly shrugging, she accompanied Adele to the stage.

* * *

Meg panted, both from nerves and from her brisk run.

She stood now in front of the cupboard. Her head pounded.

She held up Christine's hairpin.

She promised herself she'd gift Christine with a whole new set as she snapped it in half.

Methodically she retraced the steps kindly Lajos taught her those years ago.

The lock to the cupboard was smaller than the one to the wig room. Biting her lower lip, Meg exerted all her strength as she squeezed it in.

She turned it to the right. Nothing.

Pushed it in further. Nothing again. If she turned it any farther, she feared the pin might break.

One more time –

Nothing.

Meg exhaled a frustrated huff, her green-gray eyes darting this way and that as she thought.

Then they brightened.

She inserted the pin again.

She turned it to the _left._

And stamped her foot as _nothing._

Her heart and head beat in unison, the blood hot in her cheeks.

"All right," she told herself in a small but decided voice. "Just one more try."

Closing her eyes, she slipped the pin in just a bit more and turned –

That elation from six years past flooded her again as she felt that slight hitch, that connection.

_It worked._

As if in a dream, she very slowly pulled the cupboard doors open just a mite.

Then with a dart-like move she glanced fretfully behind her.

Was that – ?

No. She hadn't heard anything.

Meg stared back at the cupboard and simply looked at it for a moment.

She felt guilty. If someone walked in right now, she'd look worse than a criminal – she'd look downright juvenile, standing there with a makeshift key made out of a hairpin, picketing a lock like a child sneaks a cookie out of a jar.

But stronger than the guilt and fear of looking foolish was that brave, fierce, reckless curiosity that always swallowed Meg up in an inferno she couldn't control.

All at once she opened up the cupboard wide.

The first thing she saw was her father's faded eyes staring at her with dreamy directness from his portrait.

It humbled and spooked her.

She couldn't even lift up a hand to delicately touch the frame as her mother had. Instead she meekly bowed her head and looked away.

Away to the slat where the papers were stacked.

She bit her lip again as she pulled them out. Well, now that she had them, where should she start? Her mother couldn't stay in conference with the managers and see to the theater indefinitely. She must return _sometime._

As Meg weighed her options, feeling the letters in her hands – three, no, five huge bundles tied up with black ribbons – her eye caught something else in the slat, something at the bottom.

Meg bent down to better see.

It looked like a long sort of scroll, yellowed a little from where it lay hidden in the shadows beneath the other papers, buried for perhaps decades.

Meg felt an ominous stab at the sight of it. She shivered. But where another gentle soul might have taken the prophetic feeling as a sign to depart, Meg instead grabbed the rolled up paper with increased haste.

The scroll was quite long, and she had to blow off a thick layer of dust before she even dared open it. She absently brushed the dust off her tutu. _I'll have to remember to sweep a little when I'm done here._

Then she unrolled it.

And a thousand fireworks went off inside her mind.

It was a map of the cellars underground, written in beautiful, clear calligraphy.

But it was more than that, much more –

Trapdoors Meg never knew existed, a tunnel through the first and second cellar Meg was sure no one else was privy to, a labyrinthine maze, a...a _lake, _and –

Meg's heart practically stopped.

There, at the bottom of the map, each chamber clearly marked: "My Abode."

Meg emitted a delighted little laugh. Then she trembled.

She was sure now who the author of this map was. A tingling thrill and nausea made the room spin for a moment before she steadied, and her naturally sharp mind refocused.

She was especially drawn to the markings for the portcullis just outside the lair, and the three different passageways one could access from there...

She jumped as she thought she heard footsteps. She listened for a few moments.

Nothing.

But it was enough to make her take action.

She had to copy it, but to something smaller, more pliable...oh! That stationary Mother got her for Christmas! She could just jot down the bare bones directions without any of the artistic flourish the map's creator apparently couldn't help employing, and she could even use multiple sheets...

When Madame Giry returned in the evening, she found not a speck of dust, not a hint that anything in the home had been hampered with.

She found Meg in the kitchen, frying ham and eggs for dinner. Meg willingly cooking was a rare sight: a sight so rare it usually yielded less than stellar results when it came time to consume her offerings.

Still, after the day's events Madame Giry found a particular serene joy from the warm smile that effused her daughter's face.

As perceptive as Antoinette Giry was, she could not see the maze of trapdoors and adventures behind that bright smile. She could not see how close her daughter had come to opening the stack of letters that held the names "Julien" and "Anahid", before her eyes fell on that fifteen-year-old map.


	23. Chapter 23

The two fire marshals stood at attention on the wide stage an hour before the house opened. The young men somberly hid their mystification as they listened to their chief.

Madame Giry watched them unseen from behind the curtain in Box Five. She could only pity them the way one pities small children as they poke a wasp's nest with a stick, little thinking what the results will be.

Her face was grim and set as the guards received their orders. She heard the chief's low rumbling tones without noting the words.

Her mind was too full.

It was opening night. Who knew what nightmares this evening would bring?

As much as Antoinette knew she should be worrying about the fate of Christine and the company as a whole, her thoughts were solely with her daughter and what role the young dancer would play tonight.

Giry shivered whenever she thought of it.

For all that Madame Giry knew _Don Juan Triumphant_ was a trap both set for Erik and by Erik, the mother could only fixate on what the Phantom meant by casting her daughter – so young, so innocent, so good-natured – as a coquettish temptress, who took money both for her dancing and for her sexual favors.

Giry swallowed the bile that last image always conjured.

Erik was obsessed with Christine, idealized her. But what about Meg? He never talked to Giry about Meg, except to assure the mother that no miscreants were dishonoring her, thanks to his protection. Of the other cast members, he'd always sent letters detailing their flaws both in character and in the various shows. Every once in a while he'd highlight someone positively, promoting them to some better role or position in the company. However, he never mentioned Meg, except dictating that she would play this role or that in the next opera.

Madame Giry assumed he'd either decided she wouldn't like Meg's name mentioned too many times by the notorious Opera Ghost, or that the young girl simply never took his attention too prominently. He obviously registered her talent, going by the roles he'd selected for her over the years. Other than that, there had been no indication Erik felt one way or another about Meg.

Yet now this role of the alluring seductress...could his perspective of the girl have changed over the years as she blossomed into a beauty? Did he notice that the little nosy girl from years before now looked like a lovely woman?

Did he hate her for that?

Was he punishing Meg for daring to arouse in him desire he believed should only be inspired by Christine? Must Meg be degraded to further heighten Christine's purity? Meg's character in _Don Juan_ was nothing more than an empty viper, existing only to tantalize. Yet she was on the fringe of many scenes, a shadow following Don Juan. Was she a reminder of Don Juan's baser desires that he must purge to win the fair Aminta?

Madame Giry hoped and prayed she was only confabulating, exaggerating the situation. But her hard core of intuition that so far had never failed was telling her now otherwise.

Was the Phantom _threatened _by Meg...?

The chief raised his voice sharply to his men, capturing her attention. "You understand your instructions?"

In unison, the firemen replied in the affirmative. "Sir!"

"When you hear the whistle, take up your positions. I shall then instruct you to secure the doors. It is _essential_ that _all _doors are properly secured."

Giry smirked mirthlessly. _Locked doors stopping Erik? The fools._

She stole a glance at Andre and Firmin, also present on the stage. Their faces mirrored Giry's doubt. She saw them whispering nervously to each other.

They were practically cowering behind the vicomte. But who wouldn't, Giry thought. He looked capable to lead a brigade against enemy soldiers. He was rising to the occasion admirably. The young aristocrat seemed amazingly at home dealing with police and firemen. Once more the swift pain of Julien's memory stabbed her as she looked at Raoul's even stare, straight posture, sure stance.

Like Julien, he exuded control and fairness in equal measure.

Even the chief was naturally deferring to the young man. "Monsieur le Vicomte, am I to give the order?"

A brisk nod. "Give the order." _Even the assured, clipped tones remind me..._

She did not flinch as the high whistle from the chief reached her. Turning sharply, the firemen left the stage as Raoul reassured the managers and issued further directions to the marksman hidden in the orchestra pit.

She gasped as a smooth tenor suddenly spoke to her, hovering near her shoulder. "Well, well, madame. Enjoying the comedy?"

Giry didn't bother turning around. She knew she could not see him even if she did. "What do you want?" Her voice was low, expressionless.

"Nothing, only to tell you that you are in for quite the entertainment. _Tonight will be one to remember, Anahid."_

His malevolent pomposity enraged her. "You'll never win, Erik," she hissed.

He chuckled nastily. "You can't possibly believe these fools will actually ensnare me."

Madame Giry shook her head, knowing he could see her even if she could not see him. "You might escape them, escape everyone, kidnap Christine, even kill the vicomte. Still, you will not win." Her voice shook with violence. The image of Julien was fresh in her mind. "You cannot win for you haven't the first clue what love really is: sacrifice for the sake of the other."

"A noble sentiment, Madame," his voice oozed like poison honey. "Very noble. Now, if you'll excuse me."

All at once doors slammed everywhere around her, the firemen barring them and calling out "Secure!" Even the door to Box Five slammed shut. Madame Giry raised her eyebrow. If they could not even check to see if anyone was in the boxes, then how could they expect to capture –

Then hovering over them all came that voice again:

"_I'm here: the Phantom of the Opera..."_

Those words sent a chill down Giry's spine. Why...why was she reminded suddenly of Meg?

Raoul and the firemen started toward the direction they thought the voice originated from, their eyes on the rafters. Yet once they moved to one side of the stage, at the opposite end: _"I'm here: the Phantom of the Opera..."_

Again, a frantic chase, again the words from another direction entirely.

"_I'm here: the Phantom of the Opera..."_

She did flinch now as he whispered in her ear: _"Leave now."_

Following her intuition once more, Giry complied. The door was somehow unlocked again. She stopped just outside the door, surprising the fireman on the other side who thought he'd locked it securely and that the box was empty.

She could not see what was happening in the theater, only Box Five's shut door. From within the box she heard:

"_I'm here: the Phantom of the Opera..."_

And then a shot.

Giry's heart almost stopped. She numbly let the young fireman pull her behind him.

She heard Raoul's wrathful cry to the marksman. "Idiot! You'll kill someone! I said, only when the time comes!"

The confused marksman stammered, "But, Monsieur le Vicomte" –

Erik's voice was comfortable and serene in Box Five, like a king within his throne room. "No 'buts'! For once, Monsieur Le Vicomte is right. Seal my fate later, though, I must insist. I hate to have to cut the fun short, but the joke's wearing rather thin. Bring in the audience. _Let my opera begin!"_

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the short chapter. Consider it a spooky interlude before the real action hits the fan. **


	24. Chapter 24

Had the specter of the ghostly author not been hovering over the audience, _Don Juan Triumphant_ still would have disturbed those assembled.

From the dissonant opening chords the audience knew something strange was trying to overtake them. An unearthly melody filled the ears of the curious onlookers and socialites sitting staring and listening.

Peeking from behind the curtain, Meg ascertained throughout the overture expressions of bewilderment, disbelief, mockery, anger, and finally fear.

Though never suffering from stage fright before, Meg also felt a deep chill as her cue neared.

Yet once she started dancing, Meg found once again that the music – so jarring to everyone else – helped her evoke the saucy, tempting emotions her character represented. As she breathed in relief that she was able to perform so well under such conditions, her mother quietly despaired at how easily her daughter was able to tantalize onstage.

Once she returned backstage, Meg was keenly alert, spying the hidden marksmen, thinking of the hastily scribbled directions hidden under her pillow at home.

Meanwhile, Christine forced herself to focus only on what was needed for the show. Christine carried the greatest burden on her shoulders: everyone in the theater knew the Phantom wrote the show for her, was obsessed with her. Everyone believed her compliance was vital tonight to apprehend the madman; some even felt that this and only this would once and for all clear Christine Daae of any suspicion of acting as accomplice.

Because of this immense responsibility, Christine could not focus on every detail, every possible outcome like Meg did. If Christine dare think of every implication and the bigger picture of what she was doing she might go mad.

And so she stood vacant like an automaton between scenes. Instead of ruminating on where the Phantom might be hiding himself, how Raoul's plan might go wrong, or gauging the audience's reaction to the macabre opera, Christine limited herself to inwardly repeating the stage directions:

_Wait for Carlotta's cadenza to finish, then sing your solo. Drop your handkerchief and then register surprise as Piangi returns it to you disguised as Passarino. The duet. Exit. Now wait for Piangi and Passarino to laugh. Then sing._

She'd watched without emotion the great banquet scene, Carlotta the flamboyant innkeeper madame filling the stage and leading the chorus with her pervasive vibrato (still brooding over the size of her part, Carlotta was determined to make the most of it anyway to spite the author). Christine watched with equal passivity her best friend run saucily out of the bedchamber, chased by Piangi's excessive Don Juan.

Nemesis and friend were but separate puzzle pieces to her today, along with all the others. She let herself study only the puzzle pieces dispassionately, not how they fit together as whole.

She saw Don Juan and Passarino scheme and then swap costumes. Piangi took Passarino's cowl and headed back behind the curtain hiding the bed. Piangi sang his line, "If I do not forget myself and laugh," then indulged in a last chuckle with his accomplice. Piangi disappeared, closing the curtains behind him.

At that, Christine sang in a heavenly pure voice from backstage the words Erik had written for her the first night he fell under her spell:

"_No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy._

_No dreams within her heart_

_but dreams of love!"_

She entered. So intense - and limited- was her focus that she felt no tingle of recognition when the eerie tenor whisper-sang from the curtain hiding the bed chamber just before Passarino exited:

"_Passarino...go away for the trap is set and waits for its prey."_

No one at first noticed the difference. It was a brief line, softly sung.

They did not notice the difference as he emerged from behind the curtains, careful not to open them too wide. His cowl hid his face. His arms, swallowed in the sleeves of his heavy black cloak, spread like bat wings before him as he approached the girl onstage.

But Meg froze the instant his voice soared as he sang to the lovely Aminta, as the girl tossed her apple in the air with lark-like carelessness.

_You have come here_

_in pursuit of your deepest urge!_

_In pursuit of that wish which till now_

_has been silent..._

_Silent..._

Meg's eyes sped first to Christine and then to the curtains that Piangi had disappeared behind...

She unconsciously edged closer to those curtains.

Christine was still so focused on the mechanics of the role – _cast your eyes to the ground, look both innocent but longing at once, try to outmaneuver him but succumb to him by the end of his solo – _that she still did not register any difference...

But by the end of his solo, she without consciously realizing it felt herself swayed by that tenor...so smooth, sensual...

Slowly she registered this was an interloper. He was a black figure, not of death, but of dark excitement that made her skin crawl but drew her in nonetheless. It may have seemed madness not to immediately realize once she knew it wasn't Piangi that it was in fact he, but when the human mind is in the midst of frenzy, it will instinctively cling to any other evidence than the truth.

It was not Piangi, and in Christine's frozen state of denial, the Phantom did not occur to her. Her head swam as she sang her verse, wondering who...

She stood behind him from where he now sat on the bench. She leisurely massaged his shoulders as she'd been directed to as she sang.

The moment those ice cold hands clutched hers and dragged them down his chest, reveling in her touch, she knew.

She knew.

Any temptation she felt, any intrigue at this almost feline masculine figure, vanished.

All that she had blocked out throughout the night flooded back. She briefly made eye contact with Raoul from where he waited in the wings.

He knew.

They _all _knew.

She was the last to know. Had terror not rooted itself so firmly within her, she would have laughed hysterically at the irony.

Through Raoul's fury and hissed commands to the firemen around him, he thought to himself that never had Christine been so courageous as she was now, eyes wide and fearful, chin trembling, but still singing, still singing.

She tried escaping the hooded figure as in a barely audible voice she sang the words, but he pursued.

The audience was too engrossed even to whisper amongst themselves.

No one saw Meg inch ever nearer to the stage near the bed.

The figure was very close to Christine now, she could feel his frosty breath against her face, and as they finished their song, she took a deep breath and threw his hood back.

The Phantom's white mask shone too bright, like a sail caught by the sun, riding a black wave just before a storm.

He turned away briefly from Christine. His shoulders were hunched, his fists clenched.

Christine stared helplessly at Raoul, who held out a hand stopping her: steady, steady.

His eyes said: _You need only be brave for a few more moments, darling._

He knew Don Juan's character ended this song by gesturing toward the bedroom and then disappearing behind the curtain. Aminta sings one last solo debating whether she should follow before finally succumbing.

It was during this solo that Raoul would signal the firemen to descend on the Phantom from behind the curtain. Improvisation was dangerous, but what more could they do?

Yet one more twist revealed itself: the Phantom started speaking plainly to Christine.

His words were strangely quiet at first, sweet. He even adopted an almost childlike sing-song cadence. Raoul recognized words, phrases, that he himself had used when confessing his love to her. The Phantom turned back to Christine and there was naked yearning in the mismatched eyes staring out of the mask.

He pulled out the ring he'd snatched from her neck during Masquerade. He asked her in front of all of Paris to pledge her life to his. Then he slid the ring on her finger. "Christine, that's all I ask of you!"

A macabre proposal.

Raoul saw his ring on Christine's finger, given to her now by the Phantom – and then he saw red.

But it wasn't his fury that unleashed.

Her white face twisting like a wolf's descending on a rival predator, Christine ripped off the Phantom's mask.

The world went blank for Erik for a moment – white and then black and then all the colors again, all the shapes, too bright.

He heard the gasps. The audience was the sideshow crowd, they were the onlookers in Naser's court, his brother, his mother.

Her eyes were dark brown slits of hatred.

He stumbled under the weight, feeling stripped, hopeless.

His triumph was nothing but dust.

And then – _of course, of course_ – he heard the scream. Bloodcurdling, awful.

Turning, he saw it came from Meg Giry. The ballet girl was now on stage with the two of them.

But unlike the rest of the theater, her eyes were not on his face. Her scream was not directed at him.

It was directed at Piangi's strangled corpse with the noose still around his neck. After Christine ripped away the Phantom's mask exposing his identity for true, a flash of lightning ran through Meg. Following instinct, she yanked the curtain's cord and revealed the dead tenor.

Meg's harrowing cry and Piangi's purple face and lifeless eyes brought the reality of the situation back to Erik. With a horrible cry of his own, he clutched Christine to him and stomped once on the designated spot. They both disappeared into the trapdoor as the marksman's shot rang out from the orchestra pit.

* * *

Carlotta's grief was all encompassing. At first she'd spent her anger beating on the managers' chests and blaming them, and then she flung herself over the body of her beloved.

While in word her actions were as exaggerated and operatic as usual, no one who saw them found her comical or wearying.

Certainly not Meg, who stared with stricken face at the normally upright and valiant diva, now collapsed and broken as she wailed into Piangi's lifeless neck.

"My god, my god," Andre repeated over and over.

"We're ruined, Andre, ruined!" Firmin's despairing cry might have seemed callous in the midst of Carlotta's hysterical mourning, but somehow Meg felt Firmin included everyone in the opera house in that statement – not just the managers and their career.

She could have stood with the other dancers, crying and dumbfounded as firemen swarmed around them. She could have clutched the sobbing girls' hands as the police tried to trigger the trapdoor to no avail, as they saw to Piangi's body, as they directed the audience out of the theater.

Instead, after one last look of pain at Carlotta's sobbing form over Piangi's, Meg immediately sought out her mother and Raoul, who were talking rapidly at the corner of the stage.

She knew whatever they were discussing was what was truly important now.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, come with me," her mother was saying. All pretense of impassivity was vanished from her face. Her expression was set and alert, eyes flashing fire. "Monsieur, I know where they are!"

Raoul's expression was the same as hers, with added urgency. "But can I trust you?"

Giry had to raise her voice over Carlotta's keening and the fire marshal's shouted commands to his subordinates. "You must! But remember, your hand at the level of your eyes!"

"But why?"

"Why? The Punjab lasso, monsieur! First Buquet and now Piangi!"

Without thinking, Meg was between them, holding up her hand. "Like this, monsieur. I'll come with you." She grabbed his wrist, ready to lead him.

But Madame Giry fiercely pulled her away, eyes wide and blazing. "_No, Meg. _No, you stay here." A quick hand through her daughter's bright hair. Then she returned her attention to the vicomte. "We must hurry, monsieur, or we may be too late!"

Raoul stared for one sharp moment into Madame Giry's eyes. He found trust there.

He followed her hastily retreating form without another word. The two disappeared into the crowd, leaving Meg alone as one could be surrounded by pandemonium.

Madame Giry obviously hadn't time to dwell on Meg's confidence in proposing to lead Raoul to the Phantom's lair.

And Meg was so full of the one plan circling her brain that she hadn't even time to feel a spike of pride and relief that at last her mother was using whatever her knowledge was to help instead of hinder.

No, instead Meg thought of one thing only.

The directions hidden under her pillow.

And without a moment's more hesitation, she whipped around and pushed through the throng and ran to her flat.


	25. Chapter 25

Meg did not stop running until she reached her bed, when she skidded to a halt and had to grab her bedpost to keep balance.

She'd scarcely noticed the blur of panicked faces and figures, the horde running this way and that in the aftermath of Piangi's murder and Christine's kidnapping. She'd been so focused on her goal of reaching her bedroom that it was only her years of dance training that kept her from colliding with the frenzied denizens of the opera house as she made her way to the flat.

Panting, she now threw off her pillow and picked up the folded papers beneath.

She squeezed them tightly for a moment, nodding briskly. _They're here. Nothing's disturbed them._

Then like a bird hopping from branch to branch, she plopped them down on her bed again and ran to her small closet, flinging open the doors.

She spread apart the cloud of tutus and the few regular dresses she owned.

Behind them was the back of the closet where one of the panels stuck out almost undetectable by the human eye, a flaw in the design.

Meg nudged the plank of wood forward a bit and then reached her hand down until she felt the fabric beneath her fingers. She pulled them through.

Tan breeches, a button-up shirt, and a dark brown vest. Reaching down further, she removed the boots and cap from their hiding place.

She had told her mother a few weeks past that she was sewing something for Christine. In reality, she was adjusting the breeches she snuck from an old stagehand's locker to fit her form.

Hastily now she shed herself of her costume for the opera – bandana, silk skirts, each embedded with gold coins – and transformed immediately from the tantalizing night dancer to the plain but functional uniform of one headed down to hell.

Once she'd finished dressing, she picked up the precious instructions again, re-folding them and clutching them tightly in her hands.

Her breathing sounded odd and hiccuppy in her head, from what she could hear of it over the pounding in her temples. Her eyes were hot and there was a flutter in her chest like a rabbit was thumping its feet against her ribcage.

If this was fear, she swallowed it down.

If she was afraid, she would confront it later, once everyone was safe.

* * *

So quick was her changing that the mob was only just starting to organize itself when she emerged. Actors, stagehands, and audience members grabbed lanterns and makeshift weapons, many from the prop room. They started separating into groups. Sharp voices clashed, debating how best to journey to the cellars and reach wherever the madman dwelled. The firemen and police were still harshly blowing their whistles, trying in vain to staunch the growing vigilantism.

Unseen, Meg slipped through the crowd and ran to the nearest dressing room.

That was what she first noticed on the Phantom's map: almost every dressing room had an opening to the cellars in the back of the mirrors.

She closed the door on the hubbub outside. She had no idea whose dressing room she was in, and she took no time to look for any signifiers. Instead she headed directly to the mirror.

She bit her bottom lip so hard it almost bled as her tiny hands strained to pull at the mirror. The Phantom apparently used some sort of hand gestures to make the mirror "disappear" (so his map had claimed), but she had no time to improvise the right movements.

At last, _at last_ the mirror slid open just enough for the slim girl to make her way through.

Alice descended into the darkest Wonderland.

* * *

She damned herself right away for only bringing matches, not a lantern. For the first time she consciously felt her panic, as all around her was only black and the ominous _drip-drip_ of water hitting the ground from above. The air was bitingly cool. She felt like she was in a void, a lost dimension in space that was just blackness around her, forever and ever.

She squeezed her eyes tight shut and focused, focused on her breathing.

Then squaring her shoulders, she felt in her pocket for the matchbox.

It would have to do.

Her trembling fingers struggled at first, but at last she was able to light one. And it was with a genuine grin of delight that the first thing her eyes fell upon in the dark corridor was a line of torches against the wall.

Torch in one hand, directions in another, Meg made her long hike down.

A chance witness from another time might have judged her at first as an explorer or an archaeologist, judging by the sure stride and excited curiosity on her face as she discovered a twisting passage way here, a trap door coated in dust there, a small jump into a tunnel there. Remnants of ruined walls from Prussia's shelling fascinated her, as did the occasional hoof print in dust lining the tunnels – the Phantom evidently rode on horseback down here occasionally.

However, there was something too quaint and fawn-like about her movements and her glistening eyes that told the lie of any scientific or anthropologic expedition – there was nothing quite professional or studious about her now.

This figure was still too obviously a child. A brave and beautiful child, but a reckless and naïve child, nonetheless.

Still, she couldn't help her wonder as she took in the underground. She shivered when she passed a wooden plank with what looked like chains attached. She remembered her mother once telling her that during the Paris Commune, very often dissenters were taken here for _interrogation._

Her heart broke as she wondered if now it was Christine suffering that way – _no, no. Don't think about it. Swallow the panic._

Much like Christine had during the show, Meg made herself block out anything not pertaining to the directions on the page and the steps in front of her. Dimly she heard far off noises of the mob floors above her. If she wanted to survive this ordeal and save her friends, she had to forget them, forget what her mother might think if she discovered her absence, and forget what might await her once she reached her destination. She had to instead see only the directions in her hand, she had only to think about how best to fit herself down the awkward narrow passage to the cellar below.

Of the Phantom's face she thought not at all, consciously or subconsciously. When Christine revealed his deformity onstage, Meg only briefly thought of the disfigured leprous plaster-cast heads Buquet used to try to scare her with. Meg had fought her fear of those ghoulish props and eventually trained herself to feel nothing but indifference for them, so likewise, her only feeling upon seeing the Phantom was a rush of fury at his identity confirmed – and underlying that, a strain of pity.

Nearing the end of her journey she had to leave behind the torch, as the farther she traveled the more she was forced to climb or jump. Luckily and strangely, there was enough bluish light now that she could just make out what she was doing.

She was optimistic that meant the lake was nearby, though she did not mean to cross it.

Although she was not haunted by the Phantom's face, as she made her way deeper and deeper down the labyrinth, there was one other fear concerning him circling her brain:

What to do when she _did _reach the Phantom's lair.

She…didn't want to _hurt_ him, exactly. Meg didn't want to hurt _anyone_. She just wanted Christine safe. And anyway, how could the petite ballet girl hurt anyone if she even wanted to? Particularly someone as skilled and violent as the Phantom? She didn't even have a weapon!

So what to do once she saw him, what to say?

"'Monsieur'," she whispered to herself, rehearsing as she struggled opening another heavy trapdoor. "'You've known my mother for many years. She's helped you, I know.'" She hopped down from the trapdoor into a narrow walkway lined by bricks. Her heart pounded as she felt sure she heard the gurgling of water below. _The lake was near._ "'If you have any regard for her, you will not harm me, and if you harm either of my friends, you'll have to get through me, so' – oh, fiddlesticks, that doesn't make any sense! I'm rambling!" She admonished herself as she hurried along.

She bit her lip again, thinking. She must be more forceful, she decided. She cleared her throat and tried again after glancing down at the directions and taking a right turn where indicated. "'Stop, fiend!'" She tried this time, eyes fiery in the dark. "To get to them, you'll have to get through me first. Go ahead, let's see how tough you really are. Do you dare strike me down, villain?' Oh, that's ridiculous. We're not in a melodrama." She shook her head, almost dislodging her curls from their cap, despairing.

Still, she kept up her quick, decided pace down the narrow passage. She was terribly close now.

Despite her strong words to herself just moments before, she shrieked in terror as a figure surrounded by a bright light suddenly blocked her path.

The figure's face leaned forward.

And like an image from a dream, Meg saw through the blinding light the face of kindly Lajos, the ratcatcher who'd taught her how to pick locks. He held his large lantern up to her, studying her features.

Meg recognized the same gentle but wandering eyes, the same bobbing head that was a little grayer now.

He recognized her and gave her a toothless smile.

She immediately relaxed, ignoring the three rats that scurried past her. She couldn't find her tongue, however, the surprise of his presence rendering her mute.

Like he had to the twelve-year-old six years past, the ratcatcher pat her head again. He laughed a low booming laugh, then he coughed a little.

Meg was about to speak when he spied the papers held tightly in her hand in a protective fist.

Yet when he reached for the papers, some instinct let her release them.

He studied them. The way his eyes unfocused and skipped along the pages, his voice humming oddly, Meg felt sure the man's wandering wits weren't taking anything in.

But just like he'd surprised her with his clear coaching at the wig room door, he surprised her now by smiling sagely and shaking his head. He leaned in to her and lowered the lantern down to a particular section.

"See here, dove? That's the long way and you would have to cross a crumbling precipice to get to the top of the portcullis." He raised his lantern and indicated a narrow opening between two walls Meg hadn't seen before. "Go quick through there. That'll take you right to the top of the portcullis."

Her surprised muteness vanished, and she smiled radiantly. "Thank you," she whispered. She swallowed against an unexpected lump in her throat. "Thank you for _everything_."

He winked at her. Then his eyes swam away again and he shuffled methodically down the tunnel she'd just traveled down. She heard his deep voice sing an unsteady sort of lullaby to the squeaking horde he led.

Feeling a renewed rush of confidence, she squeezed into the opening. There was only enough room for her to slide down inch by inch, and she felt at any moment like the walls might crush her. She wished wryly that she's thought to tape down her bosom beneath her shirt.

But when she emerged, she indeed found herself at the very top of the portcullis. She gasped at its dizzying length, its elegant build. _This must be what the first people who discovered the Grand Canyon in America felt like_, she thought in awe. She smelled candles and felt the spray of cold mist on her face, undoubtedly from the lair below. She could see nothing of that lair, and she could hear nothing, either. In fact, had she not been so preoccupied, she might have noticed the quiet below was almost too eerie, too inappropriate given the circumstances.

But still, there was no hesitation in her heart now, no doubt. Somehow she knew, felt it in her bones that she could help. She would do whatever it took to save them – Christine, Raoul…maybe even the Phantom. At least, she could _try_ to reason with the man, before the mob's justice tore him apart.

Somehow she knew her mother wouldn't have joined Raoul all the way. That ingrained aloofness and belief in keeping to oneself would have stopped Antoinette Giry from fully confronting the Phantom.

And so Meg prepared to climb down the long gate by herself, with only her determination and faith as allies.

She did not see the quiet couple down below on the lake, rowing away in the gondola.


	26. Chapter 26

_Christine, I love you…._

The last words Erik spoke to Christine Daae echoed in his mind as the soprano and her love rowed away, away from him forever.

He was on his knees, smothering his face in the veil she had hurled to the ground just minutes before.

_Christine, I love you…._

As Erik wept into the cloth that had once touched her soft curls, he thought that at last he had been honest. Not just to Christine, but to himself. He rubbed the ring she'd given him like a talisman.

After everything he had done in her name, to win her to him, now was the first time he knew for true that he loved her.

Had he loved her before? Everything before the moment her lips touched his was but a hazy farce to him now. He'd worn a mask not just to fool the world, but to fool himself. He had fancied he was Don Juan; he had fancied he was in love.

But staring into the sorrowful brown eyes of the brave Christine Daae as she, with all the courage within her, took his mouth in hers to show him "he was not alone", he knew anything he had felt before that was nothing. Dust.

He walked unsteadily to his throne, sparing the music box a glance of rueful mockery. Madame Giry's words came back to him: _"You cannot win for you haven't the first clue what love really is: sacrifice for the sake of the other."_

How poignant that just as his life was ending – for he was convinced he was not long for this earth now – events unfolded just as they really would in an opera. The wise woman had prophesied his end, and so it came to be: he learned what real love was, but he lost anyhow.

Christine Daae had given him life in one long burst of compassion, her sweet, dear, soft lips trembling beneath his malformed mouth, but when she departed she killed him as well.

_It was the sweetest destruction a man could ever know._

He sat on his throne. Images, faint and dreary, whirled around his mind: the vicomte hanging suspended in the air, fighting for life, his Christine guarding him. Erik's mother groaning in distress when he tried to kiss her and throwing him his mask. Persia and the sideshow. Anahid and Julien.

Everything, everything was dust.

Everything but her.

The only one who could make his song take flight.

She, who had always seemed so meek, timid, yearning for guidance, had turned into a woman: strong and defiant. She'd lunged at him, but instead of violence, she gave him everything he needed to see the light. That kiss had been everything Erik never had. There he felt what was in Christine's heart – for the vicomte.

Erik felt in that kiss the sacrifices Christine would make, all for the man – the _good_ man – that she loved.

There was nothing to do but free her. An angel could not thrive in the darkness.

The mob was very close now. He could detect the faint flickering above of their torches, hear their war cries.

All, all dust except her.

Yet Erik was not done lying to himself. When Christine left he told himself all hope within him went with her, but once he saw a feminine figure with long curls hop into the lair and stand surrounded by mist, dreadful, crushing hope stabbed his chest again.

_Christine…?_

_Had she…?_

He squinted and hope died a second death.

She had not detected him yet, so enthralled by the space around her, but there unequivocally stood little Meg Giry. She stood alone, in breeches, the bright blue light from the lake making her look almost transparently white, like a specter herself.

Hope fled from him like the sun descending into night. Erik wrapped his cloak around himself.

* * *

Meg had also heard the mob a floor or so above her as she leaned one leg down to begin descending the portcullis.

Again it felt as though a rabbit were trapped within her rib cage as she made her way down the gate like a spider crawls slowly down its web. And once again, she ignored that feeling – fear, pounding fear – and let her childhood experience climbing the rafters and set pieces lead her steps down.

Down, down, down she climbed, her expert feet never missing a rung.

At last she landed in the Phantom's lair.

Meg stood dumb and speechless. She wordlessly removed her cap, allowing her hair to fall down her shoulders, as if she were entering a church.

The Phantom's lair was everything she expected, and the realization of her expectations floored her.

For just a split second, she let herself soak in the underground palace. Her memories of every description of forbidden prison cells and ruined castles from the Gothic novels she'd read flooded her. Just as in the books, the darkness here was relieved only by the plentiful candelabrum, the mist rolling in from the lake, the organ….

Her mouth was open, her eyes misty.

_This is where he lives. I…I've made it._

A chill ran up and down her spine.

She was the eager explorer once more, opening an infamous Pharaoh's tomb for the first time.

But this was just for a split second.

Then the rabbit beat in her chest again as she thought _Christine._

Her second thought was _there's no one here._

She craned her head around, fretfully expecting that at any moment some ghostly arm would shoot out of the mist for her. Yet none came. But she couldn't be absolutely sure she was alone without a little more exploration, could she?

She resumed her self-appointed mission.

Yet it wasn't the sure stride of a square-jawed hero of old that charged through the mist to better assess her surroundings. Although bravery pounded in her temples, it was still the tentative, dainty, but quick steps of a fawn that led Meg further into the room, leaving the mist and the lake behind her.

She started once she saw the throne.

There looked to be a figure hunched over there, covered in a cloak.

_Passarino's cloak from the opera._

No longer a rabbit beat in her heart. Instead it was a resounding and steady war drum.

Her eyes adjusting to the dark, the girl made her way to the throne. It seemed an endless walk, as if down a long corridor.

_For Christine. For Raoul. For your friends._

Her hand was on the cloak now.

And not daring to think, to breathe, she whipped the cloak away.

The Phantom's white half-mask sat upon the grand throne's seat and nothing more.

She had opened the Pharaoh's tomb only to discover his headdress.

Still, it was not quite disappointment she felt, or relief. Mystification reigned supreme in the girl's befuddled mind.

She knelt and silently picked up the mask with her small hand, holding it close to her face. The mask shone eerily in the dark lair. Meg's entire body trembled with the knowledge of who this mask once hid.

She looked around the expansive lair, at the candles, the organ, the burned off noose, the broken mirror with the dummy crumpled in the corner (which at first Meg almost gasped at, thinking in a hysterical burst that it was Christine). The torn veil by the portcullis that Meg narrowly avoided trampling on in her arrival lay forsaken and limp. A small strange papier-mache figure of a monkey with symbols leered at her.

And now this mask.

Napoleon Bonaparte must have felt this way when he invaded Moscow: the legendary city's cathedrals and artifacts remained, but where is the triumph when there is no one present to breathe life into the city?

"Christine," Meg whispered aloud, wondering.

She stared at the mask once more.

The mob was very near now, she could hear their footsteps along with their cries of fury and the sizzle of their torches.

Suddenly Meg's brows came together angrily. _This won't do, _she thought.

She refused to accept this situation as it was. Somewhere someone must be here. But where?

Her eyes fell again on the throne. She looked at the polished black frame, the massive arms. Two dragon heads were carved into the corners of the throne's back, sloping into some bearded, angry god of old at the top. The arms were smooth and flat.

Then she tilted her head. One of the arms seemed to jut out just a little higher than the other, reminding her vaguely of the plank in back of her own closet.

Meg felt a twist in her stomach, something she later identified as intuition. As if acting out a pantomime, Meg unknowingly mimicked Erik's actions just moments before by seating herself on the throne. She ran her free hand down the smooth wood finish of the plank in question, her other hand never letting go of the Phantom's mask.

So engrossed was she that she didn't note the ground start to tremble from the reverberations of the approaching feet above.

She didn't see the lone policeman through the portcullis, far off in the water, trying to corral drunk stagehands back to the cellars.

Meg's hand tentatively pressed down on the slightly raised arm. It shifted beneath her hand, just a little, but enough to make her gasp in wonder.

At that moment the policeman's gun went off in the air as the stagehands rushed past him.

The shock made Meg jump, causing her hand to come down violently on the arm, pushing it all the way down.

And with it, the seat of the throne descended below, pulling a shrieking Meg down with it.

When the stagehands entered the lair after bursting through the gates, they like Meg found the lair empty of any human life.

* * *

Despite their strained relationship over the years, Erik still trusted Anahid more than anyone else. However, it was in his nature to never trust anyone completely. It was in his nature to hold secrets privy only to himself.

And so he had deliberately left off the bottom level of his domain from the map he'd presented to Antoinette Giry almost sixteen years past.

Of course, he himself barely thought of this level. He thought of it as his basement, his storage room. It was a vast but narrow space, dark and dank. No grand furnishings or candelabrum dwelt here. Broken tables beyond repair, old masquerade costumes collecting dust, and the odd bits of silverware, paper, and sundry supplies were lined up in forgotten boxes and piles. Cobwebs coated the walls.

Its other function was a potential hiding place, his means of total escape. He knew that someday he might push Anahid too far – that Meg, every day showing more and more dangerous signs of independence, might leave the opera house and thus his threat to Anahid's freedom would carry less weight. And so he prepared for that day, so that if Anahid ever did lead interested men from the police to his lair, he could elude even her through one last trap door – hidden as the seat of his own throne.

Yet now, emotionally gutted, he did not think of true escape.

He thought of death.

Yet death by the mob's hands - - or, if he was luckier, apprehension by the police and then a _lawful_ death – was abhorrent to him.

He refused to let the last human face he see be those belonging to the common and enraged masses as they tore him apart, more animal than human. He also refused to let it be the cold and indifferent face of the magistrate and executioner.

Let it be Christine. He'd feast on her image in his mind as outwardly he starved, alone in the dark, where he belonged.

Of course, little Meg Giry had already ruined that a bit by appearing right after Christine's exit from his life.

But no matter. Better Christine's beloved friend whom he'd watched over since her childhood than the frenzied mob.

Either way, now, down here, he could be alone.

He would sit down here and let the faint sounds from above of the mob lull him, the Phantom past the point of caring for the material objects the mob would no doubt destroy.

The dark had always been kind to him. Always embraced him. Never turned him away. He'd succumb to darkness now.

He was past everything but his memories of her. She would sustain him and give him peace in his last dark lonely moments….

Yet even this endlessly pleasant illusion shattered when he heard the quick sliding "ka-CHUNK" of the throne's seat deposit a small shrieking figure he could not quite make out in the pitch-black around him.

But he did recognize the high-pitched and breathy voice that called out "Oof" as the figure landed on the ground.

His eyes narrowed in the dark.

Then fury, which he thought dead in him, swelled up once more.

_Meg Giry AGAIN._

Would this pesky petite rat never let him be?

He heard her panting, gulping. He heard her fumble for something, then the tell-tale sounds of a match striking a matchbox, the girl obviously trying to bring this cell some light.

Hate seared in his chest. _Meg Giry_…she in this moment encapsulated everything from the world above that had driven him to seclusion: insatiable curiosity, girlish fright, and an adamant refusal to let things be, that instinct to meddle….

The rush of hate turned into hysterical laughter in his chest, and it bubbled out ominously just as the match finally caught flame and the two could just see each other in the gloom.

They stood face to face for the first time.

Save for Christine and Anahid he had not been so close to a woman in a long, long time.

He laughed all the harder at her dumbstruck little face as she gazed at the Phantom.

_Pretty little fool._

Dust coated her cheeks, her thick curls even unrulier than usual. The flickering light turned the red strands in her blonde hair into a fiery halo. Her pale emerald eyes were large and blank with terror. In her other hand she held his mask.

He was amused by her get-up: was it a girlish thrill that made her want to disguise herself as a boy, like a figure in a melodrama? Or was it all practical, given the journey she just undertook?

And how _did _this devilish girl know how to find his lair so quickly? Must be Madame Giry overlooked her little mouse's penchant for snooping, and the girl recklessly found his map. _Poor Anahid. That brilliant woman outsmarted by her own giddy moppet._

In Meg's eyes he saw both Persia and a frightened little girl.

He saw a lump bob up and down in that slim throat. The girl couldn't find words, obviously, as she stood staring at this specter that haunted her youth.

Well, _she _stood. He was sitting crumpled against the wall, as disarrayed and lifeless as the dummy above. His hideous face was the only proof he was alive, animated in its cackling as tears streamed down those pale twisted cheeks.

Meg did not fear his deformity, but she feared the half-demonic, half-mourning expression in his mismatched eyes and that unearthly laughter.

Her lips trembled as she tried to address him. "M-m-monsieur" –

"How polite little Giry is!" Erik crooned, a wide smile splitting his gruesome face. "And yet how terrified, too!" He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, laughing and laughing and laughing, and clutching his stomach, and laughing….

Meg had never felt such terror in her life. She didn't know where she was - this place was not on the map! - and yet here she stood in front of the Phantom, who had spoken her name, and here she was with no weapon, save a matchstick.

A matchstick that was quickly burning out. This brought some semblance of reality back to her. Looking around, she noticed a few candles in a box. Crouching down quickly, she picked one up and lit the wick.

Somehow this decisive act – as small as it was – gave her renewed confidence.

Through the hysterical tears blurring his vision, Erik saw that against all reason, Meg Giry did not squeal and run away as she had in the past in response to his various machinations, but instead squared her shoulders and hardened her eyes. She approached him.

"Where are Christine and Raoul?" She asked without stammering. Her voice trembled, but Erik felt it was more from passion than fright this time.

At Christine's name, Erik hissed as if in pain. The hiss turned into a strangled cry as he writhed against the wall, his head in his hands. The laughter faded into sobs as he pleaded, "Why can't you leave me be? Why can't the _whole world_ leave me be?"

Meg felt like laughing herself at this. _Perhaps if you had not murdered so many people and caused so much chaos they _would_ have left you alone, monsieur! _

She dared not speak this aloud, however, determined to stick to interrogating him. With a great deep breath she stepped closer to the crying man. Her icy gaze never left him. "Tell me, where are Christine Daae and Raoul de Chagny?"

He merely sobbed.

Her terror increased. _Oh god, had he….? Were they…?_

This unnamed thought pushed out all her fear of him and without thinking of the consequences, she shook his shoulder. "What did you do with them? Are they dead? Did you _kill them?" _Her little voice tightened with fury.

With a growl Erik pushed her away. "Meddlesome wretch…why don't you ask them for yourself how they are? If they're still in Paris. They're gone, gone…." He lost himself in his misery again, head loping wearily to his shoulder as he gazed at some unseen point on the floor.

"Gone?" Meg breathed. "How…how do you mean?"

His eyes swam in such a disoriented way that she was reminded oddly of Lajos. He seemed to forget she was there and when he spoke, it was with a soft smile on his lips, as if he were talking to himself, narrating a beautiful dream:

"She…she kissed me, you see. I threatened the boy's life…and she kissed me."

Meg shook her head, blinking, sure she heard wrong or that he was just plain mad. "Christine…_kissed_ you?"

"Right here, on my lips…" His fingers fluttered there softly, as if his lips were tender, holy things now that Christine's had touched them. "Oh, Miss Giry, you cannot imagine…you, so young and thoughtless, and not made of the same immortal material that Christine is…you don't know what a kiss means to a wretch like me. You see, I was going to strangle him to death with my lasso. Right in front of her. I made her choose between us. And her eyes…oh! Her eyes, Meg Giry!" He gasped in ecstasy. "They were dark and terrible and lovely and full of passion, full of kindness, as she said 'God give me courage to show you you are not alone!' And…" He wrapped his arms around himself, eyes shining, laughing again. "And she kissed me! And not some modest peck! She gave me her very _soul_ in that kiss…but not really. No, I knew then that her soul belonged to the man dangling in my noose…and so I knew I must…must…."

Meg, so easily engrossed by stories and fearing for her friends, said attentively, "Yes? Yes?"

"I knew I must free them."

Hope spread its wings inside her heart. "Did you really?" She whispered ecstatically.

He closed his eyes, gently this time, and nodded silently.

Meg cringed as she heard a crash above. So taken up by the Phantom was she that she had ignored the mob raging above in the lair.

She shivered at the thought of their wrath.

She turned back to the Phantom, her eyes bullets. "Listen here, monsieur. I'd very much like to believe you. But…but you've killed and hurt so many. Why…why _should _I believe you?"

Eyes still closed, he said tiredly, "It is immaterial to me whether you believe me or not. Do as you will, little Giry."

His indifferent attitude irked her. She straightened, jutting out her chin. "It _should_ matter to you, monsieur, for what's stopping me from going up there and telling the mob where you are?"

_Such an odd mix of shy fear and plucky temper this little Meg is_, Erik thought quizzically.

It never occurred to her that he could respond by killing her, right there. Luckily for her, he merely laughed again. "Ah, yes! It is fitting that my rescuer's daughter be the one to end my life! Go on with you, then! I hoped to die down here alone with my memories, but if the fates want me in the hands of the hungry horde, so be it! Go!"

Though he still laughed, Meg took note of his tears.

He….

The Phantom of the Opera…

He was a broken man.

She took a moment to think on that.

At last Erik felt her eyes leave his face. She carefully put down his mask on the ground beside him. Then she scampered off to where the throne seat had dropped her, feeling for the correct lever on the wall.

She was a clever girl, Erik gave her that. She quickly found it and the seat came down and Meg crawled on, ascending to his lair again.

He kicked at his mask carelessly. Of course he shouldn't expect mercy from little Meg. Mercy only existed in Christine. Besides, wasn't this just what he deserved? To be torn apart was an operatic way to go out, at least, even if it lacked the poetry of a slow death by dehydration and a broken heart.

He heard Meg's little voice try to rise above the tumult. "Listen! Everyone! _Please listen to me!"_

The mob still raged, knocking things over, breaking some knick-knack or another. They probably had not even noticed her arrival from below.

Erik guessed she put her hands around her mouth to project this next message that finally succeeded in catching their attention: _"I know where the Phantom is!" _

He heard the great shuffling of feet as they gathered around her.

"Where is he," one harsh voice spoke over the rest.

And Erik waited for her to show them the throne.

He did not expect: "I saw him row away on his gondola, toward the Rue Scribe! I tried running after him on the bank but lost sight of him!"

Erik heard oaths and curses, then that same rough voice say, "All right, men! You heard the girl! Take your torches and let's storm after the bastard! Who cares if we get a little wet, eh?"

A chorus of assenting voices answered him.

The ground above Erik trembled as "come on" and "get to it" mixed with feet trampled out of his lair. He heard the splash of water as the group trudged through the lake, following the water out to the Rue Scribe gate.

There followed several moments of silence.

Erik sat back. The Giry girl had probably gone with them. She…she had protected him. Odd little brat.

He breathed deeply, closing his eyes. _She's more like her mother than I thought. _Maybe now he could be alone….

He re-opened his eyes at that familiar "ka-CHUNK" of his throne seat.

He said nothing as with quick steps Meg approached him again. "I had to wait to make sure they were all gone." She said in a quiet matter-of-fact voice.

He stared dumbly at her feet in their boots. "Very brave of you." Even Erik couldn't tell whether he was being sarcastic or not. He lacked the energy even for bitterness.

"Monsieur?" Her voice was neither terrified nor indignant now, only timid. "I…like I said, I want to believe you. So…so I'm going to find Christine and Raoul. If they're safe and sound like you say, well…I suppose that is that! I don't know what I'll do. But if I can't find them, or if I find out…"she gulped... "they're hurt…" He saw her feet come together as she straightened her posture again. "…then I will personally bring the police right here."

He glared at her straight in the eyes now. "You have your mother's will, little Giry, I'll give you that, but none of her intelligence. It wasn't wise to tell me that. I could very well leave." Before she could protest, he went on, "But I won't. I don't care what happens to me, can't you see that? I'm done, mademoiselle. I shall not live much longer either way. I may even be dead by the time you get back." His eyes glazed over. "Could be I'm dead right now."

He pronounced this in a dull deep voice, sounding like the low dirge of a funeral organ.

Little Meg's animated face was too busy lost in thought, probably wondering how to find her friends. All she said in reply was a disinterested, "Hm."

Then quick as lightning, without any ado or even a last ominous warning, she scurried back to the throne seat. A quick study, she pulled the correct lever.

And thus unceremoniously ended Meg Giry's first true encounter with the Opera Ghost.

As he heard her dainty footsteps die away above him, Erik melted into the darkness again.

It did not even occur to him that Meg, always so susceptible to frights and bursting into screams, did not glance away from his deformity or even shudder at it.

He fell into an uneasy sleep. He dreamed of a crystal clear voice, singing more beautifully than any other mortal on earth, and of long dark hair flowing down like Rapunzel's. Slender arms in a wedding dress cradled him.

But then throughout his dreams were quick little footsteps crowding out the voice, belonging to a set of small boots on a small feminine frame. This frame was marching ahead of him, her bright hair made of fire illuminating the darkness.

* * *

**A/N: Y'know, I always compare Meg to Daenerys Targaryen, but right now I feel like her closest Game of Thrones counterpart is Brienne of Tarth: charging forth to rescue people, taking it on as her holy mission, only to find they're not there...whoops. :P  
**

**Hope you enjoyed Erik and Meg's first confrontation! There will be many more! **


	27. Chapter 27

Meg decided she might as well follow everyone else out through the Rue Scribe gate. The journey was longer that way but a straighter shot, and far more difficult to get lost down. After all, Meg reasoned it would make far more sense if she appeared to join the mob in the hunt, given that she was the one who directed them this way.

Luckily by the time she jumped in the water and started wading toward the gate, all that were left behind were the drunker members of the party. They swayed and shouted in the water, laughing throatily, and most importantly, not noticing Meg in the least.

This was very fortunate, because at the moment, Meg's mind was too full for her to speak.

She couldn't quite believe all that had happened was real. She…she actually _met _the Phantom! _She'd _been the one to find him, to confront him, to threaten him, to – heavens! – to actually take him by the shoulder and shake him!

Had he been what she expected? His lair certainly had been, and so had the twisting dark maze down to that lair.

But what of the man himself?

And he _was_ a man. He was not some evil spirit sent from hell, or any of the lies Joseph Buquet or the superstitious ballet rats had spread over the years.

He was a mad killer, yes, but above all a broken man.

A chill ran down her spine again that had nothing to do with the water she was wading through.

Broken, yes, mad, yes – but his eyes.

There had been a weary spark in them: full of love, full of pain.

A look of more humanity than Meg had ever seen before.

She shook her head, trying to clear her mind of the image. All right, so he had sad eyes. But did those sad eyes watch as Christine and Raoul left him, like he said, or did they watch the two as…as….

Meg could not let herself finish the fatal thought.

After what seemed like hours wading her damp way through dark, cool water, with nothing but drunken carousing as her companions, Meg at last reached the Rue Scribe gate, the dim light from outside signalling the end.

The roars from the mob reached her again as she squeezed her way out between her swaying companions, who had given up their enraged oaths and curses in exchange for sea chanties.

She ducked one of their hands that had been thrown out to give the one about the peg-legged woman and blind man a theatrical flourish. She barely saw where she was going. She could still see only the Phantom's haunted eyes, so mystical and removed compared to the garish street lights and hustling crowd around her.

This distraction is probably what caused her to scream so loudly – releasing what she'd bottled up in front of the Phantom – as two strong hands reached out from the hubbub and grabbed her.

She whirled around to face the blazing, frantic eyes of her mother.

Meg had little time to take her in before the enraged ballet mistress shook her violently. "You foolish, reckless girl! Do you know what you put me through? Do you have the slightest idea? I came back to find you gone without a trace! If I hadn't chanced to see someone coming back for reinforcements, saying 'Little Giry said she saw the Phantom heading out the Rue Scribe gate' I would have gone mad with worry! How dare you, mademoiselle! How dare you!"

"I" –

Just as suddenly as she had shaken her, Madame Giry crushed Meg to her chest. She rocked her back and forth. "Foolish, foolish girl," she murmured in Meg's hair.

Ordinarily Meg would have been shaking and stricken seeing her usually sedate mother transform into first a furious stormfront and then a soothing cradle. However, tonight her mother's actions only jolted her back to reality.

Instead of justifying her actions or comforting Giry in turn, Meg instead took her mother by her shoulders and wrenched away, her green-gray eyes boring into the ballet mistress. "Mother, I've seen him. Spoken to him. He's down below in some sort of basement that wasn't on the map."

"What map?"

"…Never mind. Look, the important thing is he said he released Raoul and Christine. I…I don't know whether I should believe him or not, but, well, I sort of do. A little. There was no trace of either of them, so I have to try to believe…anyway, where should I look for them?"

Meg spoke hurriedly, and as such she missed the subtle shades in her mother's expression as she listened. First there was indignation that Meg should presume not to excuse her actions, then surprise at this new level in Erik's lair, and then a melancholy hope that Erik might have finally seen reason enough to grant Christine and Raoul their freedom…and finally dark resignation that whether or not Erik was lying, Meg had seen too much to go back now.

Madame Giry was suddenly too exhausted to try to punish her, to censure her – to shield her.

She wearily released the grip she'd still had on her daughter's arms. "If they're smart, they'll leave Paris. Tonight."

"Tonight," Meg thought aloud. Realization dawned and she brightened. "Perros! That's where they'd try to go! Perros! They'd probably rent a carriage!"

"That's not an unreasonable assumption…_MEG!"_

But it was too late. Her pet rabbit hopped away from her once more, disappearing into the crowd, possessed by purpose.

* * *

Two figures, man and woman, sat alone at the brougham depot. The man stood with his back to the street in front of the woman, shielding her from view.

Except for an old porter snoring intermittently at his post, they were alone.

They spoke in low voices, composing aloud the telegrams they would send – when and where to send their luggage, what was to be done with Mme. Valerius, where she would live with them, if she could even be moved.

The woman slipped a quiet hand into the man's in front of her.

"Raoul," she whispered.

He quickly bent down and kissed her forehead. He leaned his against hers for a moment. "My love."

They would have made an odd sight had anyone conscious been there to see them. Raoul was without a jacket, his pants soaked. Christine still wore the wedding gown. After arriving at a bank far from the growing mob, Raoul and Christine had headed directly to the depot after leaving the Phantom's boat, stopping only briefly at the servant's entrance at Raoul's home, quietly collecting money from the befuddled but reliably silent valet.

"You…you were so brave, Raoul."

"No," he took the hand she'd given him and kissed it passionately. "I won't have that. _You _were the brave one. You saved us both. All I accomplished was almost getting my stupid neck broken." He gave her a warm half-smile. "The nightmare's over, darling, and it's all thanks to you. You're a wonder."

Christine's eyes glowed as they took in his features, enjoying the warm timbre of his voice more than she paid heed to any of his words. _Sweet, foolish boy…_what he called bravery she called desperation. It had been fear that drove her, really – her greatest fear realized, that she might have to watch Raoul die. Everything she had done she had done to keep Raoul safe.

The instant she had seen him in the Phantom's noose, a crazed animal unleashed itself inside of her, and for the first time she truly hated her fallen Angel of Music.

Yet the crazed animal gave way to an eerie sort of calm, almost a kind of dull madness – yet in this madness, a clarity. For as she gazed at the Phantom, she saw in him the same frenzy she felt. A frenzy borne from love.

And in the midst of her hate for the man, compassion reawakened.

Yet it was still with Raoul's image in her heart that in a trancelike state she approached the Angel. When she took his head in her trembling hands and pressed her lips against his, her heart bloomed for her Raoul.

Her comfort, her salvation. Here, now, at the station, she felt her heart bloom again as she looked at him. Raoul, with the sun in his hair and the sea in his eyes.

Her Raoul.

Yet her heart was broken for the pitiful man she left behind. She had seen true love in his eyes for the first time as she left him – true love and death. She had a terrible presentiment her Angel might do something very foolish to himself…and she felt for him still such a confusing mix of emotions: gratitude, pity, compassion, frustration, and yes, love.

Almost…and this thought was so ludicrous she felt like dismissing it…almost like the love a mother has for a favorite son. She, who had always trembled and obeyed this strikingly authoritative figure, now felt oddly protective, as if she were the strong one and he the weak.

In a way, it was appropriate. She had given him tonight what his mother never had deigned to: compassion, affection, a kiss.

And just like a mother fears for her son, Christine feared greatly for the Angel's safety.

Still, she would do as her Angel had commanded. She would leave Paris behind and find sanctuary with Raoul. Always with Raoul.

Yet her soul was haunted. A part of her would probably always see his eyes, hear his voice….

They heard a rumble of wheels down the road that was thankfully empty, the majority of Paris's citizenry mobbing the opera house. _Oh god, Angel, please elude them! _Christine prayed desperately.

"I'll make sure this gets us to Perros tonight," Raoul said as the brougham turned the corner. Raoul fished in his pockets for his change, readying himself to make their quick transaction.

Through her befuddled wave of grief and love, Christine felt relief. Raoul may go on and on about her internal strength, but she was glad to cede some of these real-world problems to him. She couldn't cope right now.

Just as the carriage was about to approach, a cry of "Christine!" from down the depot caused Raoul and Christine's heart to stop.

It was difficult to make out the figure in the dark, but it was easy for the couple to recognize the quick little steps and small size of the girl running toward them.

Meg reached them at the same time the brougham did, the pretty girl out of breath.

"Meg?" Christine asked softly, taking in her friend's unusual boyish attire that was sopping wet from the waist down. Christine gave Raoul a quick glance that he immediately interpreted.

As he spoke to the driver, asking him to wait, Christine turned to her friend.

"How did...how did you find us?"

Meg squeezed her hands, beaming. "Oh, I'm so glad you're all right! When he said he let you go, I so wanted to believe him, but I had to see with my own eyes!"

At that Christine's eyes widened and like Meg's mother, she grabbed Meg roughly by the arms. "Good god…you spoke to him? Does that mean…he's been caught?"

"No…" Meg swallowed uneasily. Here was the difficult part. How could she explain to her dearest friend that she had actually saved her captor's life? "I…Christine, please don't be angry with me…I found him before anyone else and I…well…I sort of hid him."

At Christine's quizzical look, she hurried on. "He's hiding in an extra floor beneath his lair. I told him that if I found you safe like he said, I wouldn't turn him in. I figured if you were alive, you and Raoul would go to Perros-Guirec, so I came here." Her eyes shone directly into Christine's. "Christine, I'm sorry what I said to him. If you want, I'll still take the police there. I'm so stupid, but the way he spoke made me in the moment think" –

Christine's pressure on Meg's arms only increased. Her dark eyes were stormy and desperate. Her face was very white but determined. "Meg, listen to me. Protect him. Watch over him. Make sure he's all right. Please, _please _promise me!"

Meg's own hands dropped to her sides limp like a rag doll's, astonished. "…What?"

"Make sure he doesn't do anything rash, that he takes care of himself! He'll listen to you, you're Madame Giry's daughter and my friend!"

Meg recognized the look on Christine's face. It conveyed the sympathy and concern that Meg herself had felt watching the Phantom sob and give up. But still…of all people, Christine should logically be the last one who would want to see him safe! "I…I know he let you go, Christine, but after everything he's done..."

Christine closed her eyes and nodded. "I know, I know. But believe me, he's not evil or beyond redemption. He's…he's led a terrible life without any love, any compassion. But he is capable himself of great compassion, I know! If you can, show him mercy, and he'll be as gentle a soul as you've ever met, I swear it!"

Meg knew now that the Phantom had indeed been telling the truth, and Christine had kissed him. Meg felt nothing but awe for her friend, for her profound kindness.

"Please, please promise me you'll look after him!" Christine repeated.

Meg thought of Buquet. She thought of Piangi. She thought of Carlotta's despair and heartbreak. She recalled the sound of the chandelier crashing into the audience and the resulting screams. She thought of her own weakness compared to the towering Phantom.

But what she saw now was the face of Christine Daae looking at her with frenzied hope. Christine Daae, who aside from Madame Giry, Meg loved more than anyone else in the world.

Lastly she saw the Phantom's eyes, lost and in pain.

Meg laid a hand over Christine's. "All right," she said at last. "I promise."

Christine embraced her, sobbing quietly.

Over Christine's shoulder, Meg saw Raoul's sober face. "It's time to go," he said quietly.

Meg nodded and removed herself gently from Christine's arms. "We'll see each other again, won't we, Christine?"

Unable to speak, tears running down her face, Christine nodded rapidly. She managed one small smile before disappearing into the carriage.

Raoul kissed Meg's cheek and tugged lightly on one of her curls. "Take care of yourself too, Flibbertigibbet."

Meg returned his wink. "I will. Just as you'll look after Christine."

As the carriage pulled away, Christine thrust her head out the window and called out to Meg through her tears. "Remember your promise, Meg! And remember how much I love you!"

Meg waved with the enthusiasm of a puppy wagging its tail. "You too, Christine! I'll remember!"

They were gone through the mist of Paris's night, now almost morning.

Meg stood watching the path they'd taken for many minutes afterward, fighting with her own tears.

Then she took a deep breath and turned back toward her path home. To her new responsibility.

She almost trembled at the weight of what laid before her. In her rattled brain she could form no real plan to…to actually_ take care_ of the Phantom.

The idea itself was ludicrous: she, tiny, shy, and jumpy, looking after this almost mythical, wily figure whose very existence had haunted her childhood more than any bogeyman of old.

But she _would_ look after him. She must.

She'd promised Christine.

She took it as an encouraging sign when she felt the first sun's rays of the morning at her back as she headed home.

* * *

**A/N: Don't worry, this is far from the last time you'll see Raoul and Christine! And there are more Erik and Meg interactions coming next chapter. Thanks for all the great feedback for last chapter!  
**


	28. Chapter 28

He could still hear her singing. He would forever hear her singing. It was as if he was sitting in an echo chamber, her sweet notes reverberating in the dark rooms of his skull.

"_Christine…." _Erik whispered, eyes glazed as he stared at the black around him. _Christine._

He was already beginning to lose track of time, little wondering how much had passed since the Giry girl left him. It was probably morning by now, if not later. All he knew was the dark.

The light had vanished, had rowed away on his gondola away from him, leaving with her young man.

He was still in the same position Meg left him in. As he had told Meg, he was dead already. The only part of his soul still beating inside him was with Christine. His soul was floating up to her voice, singing only in his mind….

So lost was he in his reverie that the Phantom himself practically jumped at the "ka-CHUNK" of the throne seat now sliding down a bit more smoothly as Meg continued mastering the mechanism.

He reflexively shielded his eyes at the faint light flickering in the lantern little Meg held in her hand. "Good morning," was the vehemently lively voice that greeted him as Meg approached him, her tone of voice incongruous in this dreary dark.

His eyes adjusting to the light, he saw that she was dressed in riding gear again, with jodhpurs and boots. He thought irreverently of her Masquerade costume, though this was of a quiet brown and beige color scheme, unlike the wild pink and black polka dots of New Year's.

Her thick curls were pulled back a little by her usual white ribbon. In her other small hand she held a tray.

She removed the lid, revealing a roast beef sandwich, a cluster of grapes, a small bowl of broth, and a flask of what he could only assume was water. "This was the best I could come up with," she said in that marked matter-of-fact tone again. "I couldn't stay in the kitchen too long or I'd get caught by the cook who likes to talk. You see, the opera is closed after everything that happened yesterday, so nobody should be snooping around. Everyone still thinks you're out in Paris somewhere, or that you've fled elsewhere. No one knows when we'll reopen, or if we will."

He slit his eyes, searching her face for – ah! – there it was: a glint, just a glint there in the pale green-gray of her eyes, of fear.

Yet she stood as straight and prim as always, her feet falling now into the ballet first position, even though she wore heavy boots.

Finally he spoke. "What…are you doing?"

One blink, but she kept her face steady. "I am feeding you, monsieur."

There was something achingly quaint about the whole set up: the pretty wide-eyed girl feeding the persecuted monster. In his gentler frame of mind since Christine revealed he "was not alone", he might have been touched by Meg's gesture. However, he noticed that there was a hard blankness to her face that revealed she thought of this more as an unwanted duty that must be done with than an act of kindness on its own.

Suspicion crept over him. "Why?"

"Because."

"That is a maddeningly insufficient answer, little Giry."

"The broth is chicken and cabbage. I think I see a few carrots in there, too."

"Enough." He brought his hand down with a smack upon the ground. "Why are you here, girl? Infatuated, eh? Come to gaze once more upon this beautiful visage?" He sneered, which twisted his deformity even more.

She rolled her eyes and wrinkled her nose. "Don't be silly. I don't care about your face" –

"Of course you do."

"—I don't care about your face, but I'm certainly aware you're a murderer and most likely rather evil. But," She threw her head back, avoiding his eyes, "I'm feeding you anyway." She knelt down and placed the tray at his feet.

He clasped a theatrical hand to his heart. "Ah! What altruism! The little angelic rat takes pity upon the wretched bogeyman murderer! With no other ulterior motive, I'm sure!"

Her eyes flickered to the corner. "Ah-hah!" Erik cried. "There it is! There _is _another motive. Tell me, girl."

She placed the spoon in the bowl. "Eat."

"Come now, little Giry. I've been watching over you since you were but a toddler. I can spot a lie on your face. You look just as you did when your attempt to steal La Sorelli's cookies from the jar in her dressing room resulted in a mass of powdered sugar all over her costume. Your pathetic attempt to hide the truth then is just as pathetic now. Tell me: why are you here?"

But she only stared at him with eyes wide open, head tilted, her face suffused with sincere curiosity. _Her eyes are clear and enormous, _he thought idiotically.

"Watched over me? Watched over me, did you say? You…watched over me?" Her little voice was breathless.

_She may be pretty, but rather dull in the head, apparently. _"Yes, you little mouse, it was the specter which terrified you all your life that saw to it you never fell from the rafters when you'd climb them or fall into the arms of some rich scoundrel waiting in the wings for you." He sniffed indifferently. "Was an arrangement made with your mother."

"Arrangement?"

_Loves repeating what she hears, doesn't she? _"Yes. I would make sure you didn't break your silly neck and she'd…run certain errands for me. Quid pro quo, if you know your Latin at all, little Giry."

Her eyes were brighter and more penetrating than the candle in her lantern as she leaned in, her reddish-blonde curls almost touching his face. "But…why? Why my mother? How did you even meet her, anyhow?"

Her small voice raised almost to a squeak in her eagerness, sounding all the world as if she really were a mouse.

And he, he was the Cheshire Cat as he smiled slyly at her. "Quid pro quo again, little Meg: you tell me why you're here, and I'll tell you all about your mother and me."

Meg drew back a little. Her nose twitched, agitated.

A dark chuckle. "Fine. You'll learn nothing from me, then."

Her cheeks flushed with anger and disappointment. Meg nudged the tray closer to him. "Eat."

_Damn this girl, _Erik thought. _I felt sure I was done with everything earthly, including the joy of toying with imperfect mortals like her. But dammit, this little dancer makes tormenting her so easy! _He carelessly tilted his own head and studied her as he deliberately changed the subject. "Just how did you get this tray down here without spilling anything? All those trapdoors and steps…."

"It was difficult, but I rode Caesar down this time, taking the route you must usually take. Much smoother journey, and quicker, too. Then of course I took the boat the rest of the way." She stirred the soup, trying to keep it warm. "Eat."

The mention of the boat brought back the image of Christine in a flash. He winced. Meg had said she would bring the police if she could not find Christine and the vicomte…yet she made not one mention of either of them. And here she was with a tray….

_Oh, Christine! Where are you now? Did you leave Paris as I asked, my angel? All I want now is your safety, your happiness. Forgive your forgotten angel for ever bringing you grief…._

The sharp tap of the spoon on the bowl distracted him. "It's getting cold," Meg said in her breathy, businesslike voice.

Fury filled him, heating his insides like lava. This damned girl…she was reality, hard, bright, garish reality. He had no need for reality, no want of it. His hatred of reality was what first drew him to Christine: the unreal quality of her voice. She was a dream brought to life, a dream that tried to survive in an unimaginative world ruled by the hardnosed and limited Meg Girys.

His contempt rose as he watched the young girl unfold a napkin and otherwise fuss about the tray. She…this gossipy little chit…she'd probably never had an original, pure, creative thought in her empty head. She'd relied on her pretty looks and her technical skill to get by. Shrieking, giggling, and twirling about with the rest of her idiotic herd was all she cared about. She might have the common cheap spark of a charming street urchin all dolled up for the stage, but she had not the majestic, ethereal soul her friend – _his Christine _– possessed.

In his fury, he made himself forget that her dancing held more than technical skill, it held fire. He forgot her innate kindness which led her to befriend and take care of the unpopular Swedish girl who couldn't dance to save her life. He forgot the bravery she must possess to take out on her own to find the Phantom, to confront him, to try to feed him now.

What he saw was a small girl with an adorable face, her birdlike arms darting this way and that on the tray, nudging it nearer, poking, prying. In that adorable face, he saw instead of innocent involvement with the tray a vapid emptiness. He saw not a brave, kind girl who happened to be attractive, but instead took her beauty as evidence she was no different from any of the other flirtatious attractive pieces fluttering around the theater.

What he saw most of all was that her hair was bright and fair instead of dark, her eyes pale and whirling with varied shades of green and gray instead of a deep, warm, steady brown. He saw someone petite and curvaceous instead of tall and almost waifishly lithe.

He hated her, oh how he hated her.

That is why when she nudged the tray at him one more time and chirped "Eat" again, he quite gracefully took the corner of the tray with his hand and flipped it over.

Meg Giry flushed bright red as she leapt to her feet, her mouth open as she took in the spilled soup and ruined sandwich. "Oh!" Had there been any joy left in him, he would have laughed hysterically at her infuriated little face, at that circular mouth. As it was, he only felt a hard, bitter satisfaction at her discomfiture.

She struggled to find words, her fists clenched at her sides. "…Oh!"

"Such a cool wit even when angry," he said smoothly.

Her eyebrows came down violently on her stormy forehead. Her almond-shaped eyes narrowed. "You're a…you're a…." She shook with pent-up rage.

He merely smiled at her pleasantly, eyebrows up. "Yes?" He asked mildly. "I'm a….?" He imitated her by hanging his mouth open in a perfect "oh" shape.

Then he sputtered and choked as she hurled the water at that open mouth, which also splashed up his nostrils and in his eyes.

As he wiped it away, spitting, he noticed her quickly collect the upside-down tray.

Her proud nose up in the air, she marched delicately back to the throne seat. "There," she said like a snotty little girl getting an answer right in school. "At least you got some water today."

Sitting straight and serene like a proper princess, she ascended again into the upper level before he could properly vent his rage at her.

* * *

Twenty-four more hours passed by.

Erik remained immobile in the dark. He was so still, so silent, he liked to pretend that his physical form dissolved into the darkness around him.

Such fantasies distracted him from a disturbing, bothersome truth:

He, the Phantom, was mortal and frail enough to feel the stinging pangs of hunger and thirst.

He had fasted the two days before Don Juan, too taken up with his last minute preparations - the quick alterations to Christine's wedding gown, planning the timing of Piangi's murder, his entrance onstage, etc - to bother eating.

Now the emptiness in his stomach was incredible, pervasive.

_This can't last too much longer, _he comforted himself. _Soon I will lapse into delirium, and if I'm lucky, my Christine's lips upon mine will be my last hallucination. That or her song. A final mercy. Then I will feel nothing. I will simply…fade._

He licked his lips with his parched tongue. _Yes...fade…._

He thought of this one word so intently he did not notice the "ka-CHUNK" this time.

But his body did seize with primitive desire as the alluring scents of herbs, spices, meats, and roasted vegetables wafted to him.

The most heavenly mélange the Phantom ever came across.

In a slight daze, Erik saw the bright figure of Meg Giry come near him, once more carrying a tray. This one was much larger, the girl struggling to carry it.

The closer she came to him, the more overwhelmingly enticing were the scents from the tray. He could see the steam rising, could feel his mouth water and his stomach cry out in response.

He could say nothing as she knelt down before him. She fixed him with her clear gaze. _Was this a dream? _Then she removed the tray's lid and he gasped as paradise itself was revealed to him, waking him from his stupor.

_Sole Duglere. Potage Germiny._ Beef cutlet with truffles. Asparagus hollandaise. A tall class of water with lime. All on the finest plates with gleaming silverware.

"What…what…." Erik could only stammer.

Meg very daintily took a forkful of filet and picked up Erik's limp hand, wrapping his fingers around the fork's stem. "_Bon appetit_, monsieur," she said softly as she gently directed his hand to his mouth.

The smell, the sight was too intoxicating, too hot, and already he could imagine the forkful melting on his tongue….

Erik broke.

He stuffed the morsel in his mouth, not able to help the moan escaping from his closed mouth.

Meg swallowed her small grin of triumph, picking up a spoonful of the soup. "Chew more slowly, monsieur," she advised.

After he swallowed the fillet, she handed him the water. "_Slowly_, monsieur, _slowly_!" She admonished again as he took gulp after gulp.

She sat back on her heels as he made his own way through the rest of the delicious meal, tears in his eyes as he savored the hollandaise, as he popped a truffle in his mouth. Aside from a few perfunctory reminders that he should take it slow, Meg was silent.

As he took a break to wipe his mouth with a silk napkin, she spoke again in a quiet voice. "Louise from the chorus – you know, the mezzo-soprano – her stepbrother is sous chef at Café Anglais," she said, naming the most renowned restaurant in all of Paris. "That's why I was able to take out a tray. Once I stepped into the café's kitchen I knew no one could resist, not even a formidable phantom – especially one who must be quite hungry by now."

She watched him eat for a few minutes more. She wasn't sure if he'd even listened to what she'd said. Still, she continued in a more solemn voice. "It cost me a whole six months' allowance. But I did it, monsieur. And I did it not just to be kind, you're right about that." She took a deep breath. "I did it – and will continue doing so, monsieur – because I promised someone I'd take care of you."

This certainly caught his attention. He looked up from the potage, his eyes boring into hers. His immediate thought was Madame Giry, but….

One more deep breath and she relented. "Christine, monsieur. I promised Christine."

Erik felt his heart break all over again.

"I did find her, monsieur. You did not lie. And she…" Meg shifted. "She told me you are not heartless, you are not evil. She told me you've been badly used in life." Her eyes struck him with more fire than he expected from the petite rat. "I don't know if that's true or not. Oh, I'm sure you've had a hard time of it, but that doesn't make you a saint either, monsieur."

Bitterness scorched him at her pedantic tone.

But then her countenance softened as she spoke of Christine. "Still, she made me promise. She was so desperate, monsieur. So desperate you stay alive." Hesitantly, like a child does with an animal that might lash out and bite, she rested her hand on his arm. "Don't disappoint her, monsieur. It's her wish that you should live. You owe it to her."

Tears misted his eyes again. He glanced down at the half-eaten tray, feeling self-contempt at his weakness. _Christine._

"Very well, little Giry," he acquiesced in a defeated voice. "For Christine's sake, I will live out whatever's left of my pathetic life."

"You will eat, drink, take care of yourself?"

He closed his eyes and bowed his head in assent.

Erik privately acknowledged it was to the girl's credit that she did not gloat in her triumph. She only stabbed another truffle with the fork. "Surely you can take a couple more bites, monsieur."

She watched him eat for another few minutes. She was so relieved that she forgot to collect her half of the bargain after telling him why she was feeding him: the story of the Phantom and her mother.

So consumed Erik was in savoring every bite and ruminating on his joy and despair that Christine should care enough to force such a promise from him that he almost forgot Meg's presence.

Then her little voice spoke again. "What is your name, monsieur?"

The Phantom froze.

He stared at her, searching her face. There was a quiet, grave curiosity there. Her hands were folded in her lap.

His name.

She'd asked for the Phantom's name, the ridiculous girl.

_Not even Christine asked…_

He shuddered away the disloyal thought.

He bristled for a moment and then uttered, "Erik."

"Erik," she said, like a chirping bird repeating what it's told. She tilted her head, furthering her resemblance to a bird. "No last name?"

"None I wish to share," he replied, returning his attention to the tray. It had been a long time that anyone outside of Anahid used his name. He himself had long ceased thinking of himself as Erik, and devoted himself instead to the fantastical persona of the Phantom.

When Christine left him, he'd abandoned both personae and considered himself nothing but an empty husk.

Yet here was little Giry demanding him his name. Taking him back to the beginning.

Meg sat there, thinking, running his name through her mind. _Erik. _Simple but foreign. The lack of a last name lent it an air of warning. It was a human name shroud in mystery. Just like the figure before her.

From then on, he was no longer Opera Ghost, no longer the Phantom of the Opera. To Meg, he was always 'Monsieur Erik'.


	29. Chapter 29

And so a long process began of the young dancer sneaking down to the bottom level of the Phantom's lair, helping him clean the place and arrange a roughshod sort of living quarters for the reluctant man. She also supplied him with food and, eventually, conversation.

Both parties were tentative at first, of course. On Erik's side, there was little to interest him in the girl, little to interest him in anything outside the fog of his heartbroken memories of Christine. Thus the very idea of conversation appeared the most irrelevant of pastimes to him, as he considered his outward mortal shell – which he kept alive only for Christine's sake – essentially null and void.

On Meg's side, there were fear and distrust holding her back. In fact, their relationship might never have advanced outside perfunctory announcements of "here is your food, monsieur," and "I've recovered this lamp that wasn't too damaged by the mob, monsieur," were it not for the undeniable fact that underneath her fear and distrust, there still lived her strong fascination with Monsieur Erik, the opera ghost.

Although he had sworn to himself after Christine's kiss that he would never wear his mask again, he felt himself almost panicking without it. He'd come to rely on it too much. He resumed wearing it at odd times, particularly when he knew Meg was coming. She'd never shown any fear of his face, but too many memories of frightened wenches haunted him.

Meg would watch each day as Erik, almost like a somnambulist, would numbly go through the motions of a living being. So she did not have to bring him a new meal each day, he quietly directed her to his pantry above the lower level. Eventually she convinced him to explore the upper level of his lair with her, to help her recover what he wanted down below. He only swept an indifferent gaze over the broken furniture and destroyed artifacts, reminders of the mob. The police had given up hope of finding anything useful there, and left it abandoned once more. Erik only made the occasional assenting noise now and again in reply to her question about this piece and that piece.

He would gaze ahead expressionless, as though he were deaf and blind, when she explained what happened in the aftermath. How the opera was still shut down. How no one had traced him yet.

How the Girys were under suspicion.

"Nothing official has happened yet, of course," she said one day as she dusted off some of the furniture taken out of storage. "The police are still investigating. Mother seems to think we should be served any day now. I've already been questioned about my statement that I saw you sneak out through the Rue Scribe gate."

Erik saw her blush as she said this, and dimly realized that if the police had any wits about them, they would have noticed it too if she blushed when questioned. All he thought was that no wonder the Girys were being questioned so thoroughly, why Madame Giry felt sure they would be called to testify. Little Meg might be an adept actress on the stage, but outright lies in real life were still obviously a novelty to her.

He sat himself in front of his pipe organ. All the keys had been smashed, but the frame itself was more or less salvageable. All he'd really need do was replace the keys.

_Yet what is the point? You can barely live and face the day down here without Christine, much less write anything. Ah,_ he answered himself, _I can play what I've already written, what she's already sung. I'll play those songs until my fingers bleed if need be. Imagining her voice accompanying me will be how I live the rest of my sorry life…._

As he ran one finger lightly down the broken keys, he heard the little Giry girl hum "Think of Me" thoughtlessly to herself as she dusted.

That familiar tune coming from anyone but Christine was too much. He cleared his throat. "No date for the inquest yet?" He'd say anything, anything to stop that humming.

His ploy worked. She stopped and thought for a moment. "No, and now that I think about it, that's almost certainly why Mother thinks they haven't called on us yet. The police probably want a more official surrounding before questioning us too much further. Besides, they have to wait until they can get a summons for Raoul and Christine to provide evidence."

She jumped as Erik brought his fist down with a crash upon the broken keys, the resulting sound like a cat stabbed to death. "Why can't those wretched fools leave them – leave _her_ – alone? She is not responsible for me." The uncovered part of his face was contorted, his eyes sorrowing. "Why, why can't they let the angel be?"

Meg was very grave. "I agree, Monsieur Erik. Christine deserves far better."

Erik shot her a venomous glare. "We must reach an agreement, Mademoiselle Giry: in my presence, limit your mention of her name unless it is absolutely necessary."

She merely raised her chin and wrinkled her nose, looking for all the world like a stubborn child. "Hm. I seem to recall, Monsieur, that _you _are the one who brought her up this time."

She couldn't help but squeak and jump when he was suddenly towering over her. "Nonetheless," he said slowly, enunciating each syllable, "I expect you to comply."

His look and manner so perfectly captured the terrifying essence of the Phantom of old that Meg did quail at the sight of him.

Yet Erik couldn't help admiring her a little for the fact that though she trembled, she still stuck out her chin and affected defiant indifference. "Hm," was all she replied with again. Then she returned to her dusting.

As quick as his anger had flared, it receded. He heard the sweet syllables from his darling running through his mind: _"You are not alone."_

He looked at the red-faced young girl avoiding his gaze as she dusted his furniture.

_Christine gave you a precious gift, monster, _he chided himself. _If you must live, try not to abuse it. Try, _try _showing some of the compassion that _She _would._

Yet trying thus was difficult for him. He couldn't face Meg, so he merely sat at his organ again. "Mam'selle, you see before you a creature so long in the darkness he can hardly recognize light when he sees it. I will not lie to you. Christine was my light. Without her, I see nothing, I hear nothing, I _feel nothing. _You understand? I sense you are a well-meaning thing, and I owe your mother – and now you – a great deal. But do not expect me to ever show you much gratitude. It's not because I do not wish to, but I am simply too empty, too void of any sort of life to even know how. But…."

His voice trailed off as he steeled himself. He took a breath and continued.

"But let me express what I can now. Thank you, little Giry. Not for taking care of me, as I am not worth the effort. But thank you for honoring…_her _wishes."

Meg was so stunned by his words that she again missed the opportunity to press him about his alliance with her mother.

She was very quiet. He did not turn back to her. He stared at the broken keys.

At last she spoke. "I do not do this for thanks, Monsieur Erik. Like you, I am thinking only of Christine right now. Well," she said, recanting. "That is not strictly true."

He cast his eyes to the corner, just able to see her gracefully approach him. "I do feel for your sorry lot, monsieur," she confessed. "I…I don't know at all what you've been through, but it must have been horrible." She sighed. "So if I in any small way can make your lot a little better, where's the harm?"

Erik looked up at her now. Her smile was warm.

* * *

Yet soon something happened that disrupted their newfound truce profoundly.

Not even below in the cellars was Meg ever so spooked as by the hauntingly empty opera house. There was something more serious and funereal to the closed opera now than after the chandelier's fall. Meg would walk quietly down abandoned halls, across the quiet stage. She'd stare at the empty seats. She noticed the mark of gunpowder on the curtain from where the fire marshal shot at Erik disappearing with Christine down the trapdoor.

Meg might have been crushed with wistful memories were it not for the fact she kept herself so busy.

First there was looking after Erik, and doing so in such a way as not to rouse her mother's suspicions. For she knew her mother _was _suspicious of her now, and Meg couldn't really blame her. Meg sheepishly looked away each time Madame Giry's eyes narrowed thoughtfully on her daughter.

Luckily, each time she came close to confronting Meg, inevitably the ballet mistress was called away to see to some matter that the managers were too preoccupied to attend to.

And there was the second way in which Meg kept herself busy: the managers were embroiled in legal matters, Madame Giry was therefore preoccupied with taking care of their usual duties, and so Meg saw to the other dancers as her mother usually did.

In this time of indefinite closure, Madame Giry insisted the dormitories stay open. Mother and daughter both knew that for many of the girls, this was their only home. The Giry women would _not _abandon them to the outside world, which often had very few avenues open to young women trained only in the arts.

Yet there remained the matter of money. Not only was the opera house closed, but many of the patrons had withdrawn their support in the aftermath of _Don Juan Triumphant _(which sadly included the absentee Raoul).

So in between rehearsals, Meg came up with a plan. Taking Cecile Jammes and the dismissed Elodie Moncharmin on as her chief lieutenants (they were the best seamstresses outside the costume department Meg knew), Meg encouraged the dancers to take some of the old, obsolete costumes that had been abandoned because of large tears or changing fashion, and repairing them.

Meg knew from experience how thrilling artifacts from a crime scene could be. She remembered a few years ago when a stagehand had bragged that the pipe he smoked was stolen from a dead duke's household and sold to the man for half price. Although Meg had intellectually agreed with Christine's scandalized assessment that such a relic was shockingly ghoulish – well, Meg couldn't help but feel a slight tingle and almost asked if she could hold it.

Thinking of this, Meg spoke with Pauline and came up with an arrangement: any of the old costumes the girls could salvage, they could advertise as "Outfits worn by members of the Phantom's Opera" – even if these pieces were from productions far older than _Don Juan -_ and sell them.

As Meg predicted, this proved rather lucrative.

Meg instinctively had a good head for business, but she was wholly uneducated about the legality of her operation. It did not even occur to the naïve girl that the managers might need to be consulted first, a retailer other than Pauline's connections involved. Meg simply saw an opportunity to keep her and the girls working, and since the managers, her mother, and the police were far too busy with other matters around the Opera Populaire to take notice, they were able to carry on with their enterprise.

One day Cecile was hemming a silk scarf used in an old production of _Scheherazade _when she noticed Meg look very pensive and quiet over a voluminous skirt she was working on.

"What is it, Meg?"

"I recognize this dress. Carlotta wore it as Rosina in _Barber of Seville_." In a more wistful voice she said, "That was her very first performance here." She ran a hand somberly over the rose-colored material, the flowers embroidered at the bottom. Meg remembered how startlingly vivid Carlotta was in her debut, how no one in the opera house ever saw someone command the stage so effortlessly. Her voice was powerful – _too _powerful, true – and she did not act so much as strut.

But how charmingly coquettish that strut was, how vibrantly assured and – yes – likable she was as she beamed at the audience, trilled into Piangi's infatuated face.

Cecile recognized the look that then came into the dancer's face as Meg studied the singer's old dress.

Resolve.

* * *

Meg stood outside the large mansion, mouth slightly agape.

She was not used to taking expeditions to the wealthier suburbs of Paris. She barely ventured outside the opera house except for walks with the girls, occasional shopping trips with her mother, or when she used to visit Christine at Mamma Valerius's. Even so, she could tell this house was conspicuous amongst even the rich and tasteless.

The paint was a pale but decided pink. Tall Greek columns supported the archway, giving it a vaguely tropical air. In the middle of the courtyard was a gigantic sculpture of a naked man and woman locked in a passionate embrace. Nude art wasn't unheard of in the lawns of Paris's elite, but in such an ostentatious display….

_Yes,_ Meg thought. _This is certainly the home of Carlotta Giudicelli and formerly of Ubaldo Piangi._

She was let into the expansive front entrance and taken up the spiraling staircase by the maid but let in to see Carlotta by the recently instated nurse. Meg stepped into the large bedroom, which was as pink as the rest of the house, full of paintings and photographs of the Italian singers. The vanity and chairs had gilded edges, and the pillows were all delicately embroidered in silk.

Yet an eerie lifelessness hovered over the room now. Similarly to what Meg observed in her few seconds downstairs, the pink lampshades and curtains were all shroud in black: in mourning.

For all that she had genuine sympathy for the diva, Meg still expected to see La Carlotta beautifully made up in a satin dressing gown with curled hair, sitting propped up and proud in bed.

So she sucked in a breath when she saw instead a huddled figure curled in on itself, clutching blankets over her head. The only sound that greeted Meg was quiet sobbing.

It took a moment for Meg to find her voice. "La Carlotta?"

"Leave me alone, nurse, just leave me alone." There was none of her usual impertinence in her reply. Only the resignation of a heartbroken child.

"It's not the nurse, Signora," Meg said, tentatively approaching the bed. "It's Meg Giry."

At that Carlotta shot her head out from under the blankets. Meg just kept back her gasp of shock. Carlotta was wearing no makeup, and without it she lost her artificial glamour and gained instead a look of raw honesty: lines, circles, and true rage and love transformed into a face of intense grief.

But what took Meg's attention the most were her eyes. They were red and angry, but not angry with the vain contempt she'd shown to Christine, nor the impatience with a tardy maid or clumsy wardrobe assistant. Instead this was an anger borne out of losing the one thing that kept her going.

"Ha!" Her hands trembled from where she clutched the coverlet. "At last, one of you dares to face me! And _you_, her friend! Not even the managers have come by. Oh, they hovered at the door downstairs a few days after it happened, I heard them. But they did not even try to come up and see me. 'We do not want to disturb Signora,' that Andre sniveled. 'Just give her this bouquet, please.' They don't care. They just want to butter me up so I don't file a lawsuit! Well, damn them all to hell! No one cares! No one ever really cared about me except for" – here her trembling increased and she at last broke down, burying her face in her hands. "Oh, God! Ubaldo!"

Meg had a little difficulty following along; Carlotta's accent was particularly thick now and sometimes she'd mix up her French and speak in Italian instead. But Meg understood two key points well enough: Carlotta's heart was broken and the opera had abandoned her.

They had all abandoned Carlotta, she who had devoted six years of her life to the Paris stage, bringing in more crowds than ever before. And now they did nothing for her. Carlotta was temperamental and difficult, there was no doubt, but that no one came to visit her….

Underneath her sympathy, Meg felt fury and shame on behalf of the Opera Populaire.

"I'm so sorry," she said at last. "Not just for…what happened, but that no one's come to see you."

"Don't pity me, you brat," Carlotta spat out from behind her fingers.

Meg took no offense, simply lowered herself into a chair nearby. She folded her hands neatly on her lap. "It's just not right, is it?" Meg mused aloud. "So much has taken place, yet the world goes on as it always has. Things are different, of course, but people recover so quickly, too quickly. Strikes you as strange, doesn't it?"

Carlotta was lying back on her pillows now, staring in front of her with a dead expression. "I wouldn't know, little Giry," she intoned in a dull voice. "I've not left my bed since, so I have no idea how the world is taking anything."

Again shame burned Meg's cheeks as she recalled how she stood by and listened to the gossip about Carlotta after the catastrophe, how the diva had broken down completely and spent a week in the hospital afterward. Meg swallowed guiltily as she recalled she'd been as wide-eyed and eager to hear the news as anyone else listening.

"How are you feeling?"

Another sarcastic and bitter laugh. "How do you think?"

Yet another quiet moment. Then Meg's little voice: "What can I do for you, La Carlotta?"

The plain sincerity of the statement caught the miserable singer's attention. She cast a look at the girl. Meg's pretty face was grave, respectful. There was kindness in her eyes.

And something in her own face softened.

"You're…you're not a bad sort, Miss Giry. Of all the cruel idiots at that establishment, I've never had any real objection to you outside your close friendship with that little tart. You caused some mischief here and there, but _c'est la vie, _as you French say."

Meg never heard such a gentle tone in her voice before.

Carlotta continued. "I appreciate your coming to see me. But there's nothing you can do." She turned desperate, frightened eyes to her. "Don't you see? I once felt such hatred for Christine, for…_that man. _And I do still feel hatred, I do! I hate them both so, so much. But," she was shaking so violently it looked like she was having a seizure. Tears clouded her eyes. "But…I feel so helpless! Useless! Without my love, I…I…."

She grasped Meg's hand, pulling at it, somehow trying to plead with Meg to understand. "Oh God, I just want to disappear! Die!"

She cried out then, bringing a stunned Meg to her feet.

At that moment the nurse came in. She was a refreshingly practical and efficient person, the perfect choice to minister to La Carlotta. "There, there, dear," she said matter-of-factly as she administered a sedative to the singer, removed her tight grip on Meg and settled her back down on the pillows.

The nurse turned to Meg and said, "That's all for now. She's too excited."

Meg stood staring at the fading singer as she lost consciousness. The dancer's little fists were clenched at her side.

* * *

Erik stood in his halfway newly furnished lair. A dim lantern hanging on the wall shone down on the sketch he held up in his portfolio that he'd just finished. He was studying it in the light.

He lightly touched the curve of her charcoal cheekbone. He was especially proud of the eyes. He'd captured if not the true haunting, soulful spark in the dark irises, at least the closest a mortal man could.

He'd done well shading the details of her hair, too. How he'd worshiped those brown locks, the intricate natural curls flowing endlessly down her back.

He could almost believe it was truly Christine's face he gazed at. He could almost feel her skin beneath his fingertips….

Erik gave no notice of Meg's arrival. It wasn't until he heard her slam down the bag full of his repolished silverware that he raised his eyebrow and turned around.

His breath caught in his throat. He'd been staring at the black and white portrait for so long that seeing something so vital, so alive, so bright with color as Meg Giry today as she moved about in obvious fury, was jarring to him.

Her soft cheeks were crimson, her narrowed eyes angry emeralds. Her thick strawberry blonde curls bounced violently as Meg dumped the silverware unceremoniously on the table. So far she had as yet to meet his gaze, to speak to him.

He'd never seen the little dancer so angry before. "Upset are we, Miss Giry? Someone criticize your _plie?"_

The glare she shot him sent a shock straight to his chest. He…he'd never known the little Giry girl could hold such fire in her eyes and expression.

"Of course not. As I've told you before, because of a certain someone, the opera house is closed. So no one's around to criticize my _plie_ one way or another. Nothing's been done to _me, _monsieur," she replied haughtily.

"Ah," he affected carelessness as he turned back to study Christine's portrait again, denying his curiosity. "Never mind, then."

His own fury awoke when Meg suddenly slapped his portfolio out of his hands, sending it flying across the room. "You don't care at all, do you?" She yelled at him. "You don't care about anything at all!"

He felt the tell-tale hot wave of deep, searing anger return as he stared at the bright red face of the girl with her shaking fists balled at her side. Without knowing the context of her words, Erik shot back, "Why _should_ I care about anything? Seldom has anyone cared for me in return! Outside of mockery and abuse, that is!"

"_Ubaldo Piangi_ didn't abuse you!" There were tears in her eyes now. "No, nor La Carlotta! I know you hated her, and I know she was mean to Chris" –

"Don't say her name!"

"– to _Christine, _but what did she ever do to you that you should destroy her life? My god, monsieur! I've seen her! That proud woman! She's devastated to the point where she can't even leave her bed! And Signor Piangi," A tear rolled down her cheek. "He…he was a good man. He…he didn't deserve…." She remembered the sight of his purple face and prone dead body. The lasso around his neck. _Good god, I am looking after the man that did that to him!_

Her lips were quivering uncontrollably, but she squared her shoulders and calmed herself. She continued. "Buquet, too. I never liked him, he scared me, but who knows, someone out there might have loved him. That old woman you dropped the chandelier on, too. How can you claim to love someone to distraction yet then as if it were nothing destroy the lives of people who also might love or be loved?"

Along with fury, there was now an honest appeal in her eyes as she looked to him for an answer.

She'd expected another dark snicker, a flippant reply steeped in sarcasm.

Instead she saw the Phantom lower his head and close his eyes. When he opened them again they were bitter and heavy with self-loathing.

"Of course you're right. I am an evil, twisted soul, mademoiselle. Have I ever led you to believe otherwise? I did not deserve Ch – _her _kiss, _her_ compassion. If I could take back anything I've done in my life, it would not be the murders, the scheming. No, I would have refused that kiss. _That _was my true crime. It is against nature for a goddess of light and kindness to kiss a corrupted satyr – half demon, half beast."

He collapsed tiredly into his antique armchair, which took the place of his throne in this new bottom lair. "Yet here I've been exalting in that memory. I should have turned away before she could touch me. I should have never touched _her_. Should have never spoken to her. Should" –

"'Should, should, should!'" Meg interrupted impatiently. "Forget your stupid shoulds! What good do they do anyone now? Forget what you _should _have done then, and focus on what you _can _do now!"

The corner of Erik's mouth curled up at the sight of her acting the pedantic little girl again, hands on hips.

"What I _can _do, girl? Tell me what exactly I _can _do. What can I do for La Carlotta, eh? Bring back Piangi? I may be brilliant and innovative, but I am no Frankenstein." He shook his head, resigned. "There is no redeeming me, mademoiselle. The most that can be done for me Chris – yes, _Christine_ already has done. She's awakened this dead, putrid thing called my soul, just enough to stir my conscience so that I can truly take in my crimes. Is not this punishment enough, little Meg?"

She stared at him for a moment.

Then, "No."

He did laugh now, harsh and sudden. "You are a stubborn little goat, aren't you? Fool."

"Call me what you like." She stood in front of him. "But listen here: I _will _find a way to make you redeem yourself, to do something to help Carlotta. I refuse to hold your hand and redeem yourself for you, monsieur, but I also will no longer aid a murderer who does nothing to improve himself."

"Then _leave."_

"_No. _I promised Christine. So I'm stuck. I won't aid an unrepentant murderer, but I won't break my promise to Christine. Therefore, it's up to you to get me out of this mess and pick up the pieces of your sad life and do something worthy." Her posture was ramrod straight as always, her hands folded quietly in front of her. Her eyes, however, still held that fire.

And that fire…_stirred _something within Erik he couldn't define.

For the first time since Christine left him, he felt true life surge through his veins again.

Yet he tried to stamp it down. "All right, so you won't hold my hand." His small smile was wry. "But I am open to any suggestions."

Her nostrils flared as she considered. "I'll think of something," she said decisively, then turned around and ascended to the upper lair again, leaving him musing and pensive.

As she left, Meg repeated like a mantra through her head Christine's words to her: _"If you can, show him mercy, and he'll be as gentle a soul as you've ever met!"_

This was proving far easier said than done.

Yet he hadn't hurt _her_ so far, had he? He'd scared her, of course, but was otherwise perfectly benign in his behavior.

And he _had _suffered. Suffered terribly. He'd mentioned sideshows in bitter ramblings earlier, and he'd just brought up abuse and mockery. Who could go through that their whole lives and remain unscathed?

Perhaps underneath all that there was still someone with a grain of morality.

Still, she wasn't entirely convinced….

But something suddenly occurred to her as she hurried back to her flat before her mother arrived.

_If deep down I'm really so distrustful of him…._

_How come I've never once raised my hand to the level of my eyes in his presence?_


	30. Chapter 30

Christine de Chagny sat on a large flat-faced rock overlooking the beach at Perros-Guirec. As it had so many times in the past, the combination of the sea salt air and her red scarf billowing around her calmed her, grounded her.

And she had something else to ground her now, too.

She studied the blue diamond ring on her finger. The gold wedding band.

A grateful smile settled on her lips.

She'd been married little over a month now. Married to a man with eyes bluer and brighter than the diamond she stared at now.

Meditating on such ridiculously maudlin and wonderful thoughts took her mind off the black mourning gown she wore and why she wore it.

The sound of footsteps on the sand behind her didn't make her jump so violently anymore. She knew that it was Raoul.

She turned to see him approach her, the man living sunlight on this darkening evening.

Without saying a word he sat beside her on the rock, rubbing her arm.

They stared silently at where the sunset dyed the water a deep maroon on the horizon.

"How are you feeling, love?" He asked at last.

She laid her head lazily on his shoulder. "Oh, a little better, I suppose." She fiddled carelessly with the loose threads on her scarf. "Better now that the crowd's gone away."

Raoul was quietly amused at what his introverted wife deemed a "crowd": Mamma Valerius's funeral had only been attended to by a very small portion of her surviving family, about ten in all. The old woman had insisted in her will on being buried in Perros next to her husband in the same cemetery Christine's father rested in. She also dictated that she'd hate a mob at her funeral and only wanted a select few. Her sister Idalia, deeply senile now, often interrupted the ceremony by asking wherever the waiter was with her hot chocolate.

Madame Valerius left the house in Perros to Idalia but with the stipulation Christine should take over once Mamma's older sister passed. Her home in Paris she left to Christine, along with the rest of her fortune, except enough to keep Idalia comfortable in her waning years.

Tears stung Christine's eyes as she thought how she'd never had the chance to really say goodbye to her foster mother. She'd written to her after she and Raoul arrived and married in a private ceremony in Perros, and she received a lovely long letter from the old woman sending her love and high hopes for her beloved adopted daughter's future. She hoped to join them soon.

A month later the telegram arrived from the doctor announcing that Madame Carina Valerius had died peacefully in her sleep.

Raoul worried about the cumulative effect on Christine. She still suffered nightmares about the events in Paris with the Phantom, and those memories combined with the loss of Madame Valerius – the only living reminder of her father and her past outside Raoul – lent Christine a numbed air.

He hoped to distract her by showing her two letters in one envelope. "Little Meg has written. Madame Giry, too. Both express their regrets about not being able to come to the funeral."

Christine smiled sadly. "I've been expecting that. I don't blame them. They can't leave Paris, can they? Because of the police."

Raoul didn't answer, just rest his chin on top of her head. "Oh, Raoul," she sighed. "I feel it's all my fault somehow. I'd hate to think because of me the Girys are in trouble…."

"Hush now, you're not to blame. _You're_ the one who saved everyone's hide if you ask me. Anyway, Madame Giry is a fighter, and our Flibbertigibbet shouldn't be underestimated either. They'll be fine, my love." He handed her one of the letters. "Meg says there's a special postscript for you at the back of the page."

Christine glanced over it. Then her smile reached her eyes. "Oh, that sweet thing. She explains briefly what she's been up to at the opera house – apparently she's turned herself and the ballet corps into seamstresses – and says she'll never mention _him _to me unless I give leave, but that he's fine and agrees to keep living."

Her eyes brimmed now with tears. "That dear Meg. I wish she _was _here…." Christine felt faintly rueful as she thought of her friend. In truth, she missed her painfully, more than she expected she would. Christine realized now that she – well, she couldn't say she ever took Meg for _granted_, but during everything that happened - the whirlwind romance with Raoul and the tragedy with the Angel - Christine had not sought out or thought of Meg as much as she maybe should have.

It was only now, away from her for the first time in three years (not counting the six months she spent with Raoul), that Christine felt the painful loss of her faithful friend by her side. She missed her support, her sweetness, her kind eyes and mischievous smile.

Once everything sorted itself out in Paris, Christine would invite Meg here, to the lodgings she and Raoul were renting.

_Once everything was sorted…._

Christine shivered and a tear escaped her.

Her Angel.

Her poor lost Angel of Music.

Thank God he'd agreed to live.

Thank God he now had the chance to maybe someday find happiness.

But….

In the meantime, what about her own nightmares, her fears someone was watching her?

She was still plagued by vague paranoia, and she feared how that might affect her marriage, her very life. She knew that the Angel would never stalk her again, and she felt overall more at peace about everything, but emotionally…emotionally there were still heavy traces of the old fear. That fear was proving a habit she could not yet fully break.

"Whenever all the memories of the past, of Paris become too much for me," she said in a faraway voice to Raoul now, "I think of that music box in the Phantom's lair. I've told you about it before, haven't I? The papier-mâché monkey with the velvet lining. The figurine of lead. It…I can't describe to you what _comfort _I take from thinking of it. Because…because…." She struggled to find the words. "Because it seemed to make the place so _human. _Jolly, even. When things threaten to become too dark around me, it reminds me that even there, beneath that black labyrinth, in that place of darkness, there lived a little papier-mâché monkey clanging his cymbals together to that silly little tune from Masquerade."

Raoul marveled at his wife's beauty, her spirit. As she spoke an odd light played in her expression, making those dark eyes sparkle warmly.

He couldn't help but crush her to his chest, laughing noiselessly at the surprised little sound she made.

It wasn't quite a lustful embrace – though both parties had come to thoroughly enjoy their conjugal rights – but it was both playful and achingly sincere.

He kissed her curly head. "You're _my _monkey music box," he announced, squeezing her.

Only he could make her laugh this way, like that graceless donkey from years ago. "My word! I don't know what to say."

He shrugged, raising his eyebrows. "I'm a romantic at heart, that's all."

She swatted him as he tickled her sides. She settled herself back into his arms. A few more quiet moments and then she said, "Have you written Roberte back yet?"

Laverne's letter had been the first to reach them soon after they married, full of the expected vitriol. She denounced him, saying she was in touch with her lawyers to disinherit him.

Yet now, only a day earlier, a tearful letter came from Roberte, Raoul's second sister. She missed her little brother, and was trying desperately to appeal to Laverne. If Roberte succeeded in softening Laverne to the extent of agreeing to speak to Raoul, wouldn't he agree to speak to her as well? Roberte wasn't promising any magical solutions, but she'd try anything.

However, Raoul shared his eldest sister's bullheadedness. He was on the verge of writing back that he would not deign to compromise with a woman who spewed such hatred at his wife, and that he was undoubtedly better off without such a millstone around his neck as Laverne.

Yet Christine's hand stilled him. Just as he was the only one who could make her laugh, she was the only one who could chip away at his ironclad stubbornness. She soon convinced him not to be too hasty – not to abandon family so easily, as she knew the pang of losing her own.

"Yes, I just sent a reply back." His face was grim. "I agreed to speak with Laverne, nothing more. But I doubt we'll get anywhere. Laverne will never agree to these terms."

Christine felt sad yet secretly relieved. She'd never met Laverne, but Raoul's descriptions were enough to make her frightened of the woman. She felt sure she'd never withstand the older woman's scrutiny.

Holding Raoul's hand, Christine reminded herself that it didn't matter. _Raoul loves me, so who cares what the rest of his family thinks?_

She glanced up and saw a look she easily recognized on his face. She couldn't easily name it, though…it was sort of a fierce meditation, an eagerness for the future, maybe….

"Something on your mind, dear?"

"Hm? Oh, I was just thinking…" He squinted toward the horizon. "About what to do with ourselves now."

Christine said nothing, just waited. She was so glad she had Raoul. She always dwelt so much – _too _much - on the past, while he thought of nothing but the future. He kept her looking forward while she reminded him not to forget what came before.

He spoke again. "You know…I hope you don't think me insensitive for saying this, but…when I helped the police organize the defense of the opera house…."

"Yes?"

"Well…I mean, I was very tense and worried for you throughout, of course…."

"Darling, please don't worry about offending me. I think I know what you're trying to say." She stroke his hand. "You enjoyed it, in a way. Working with the police. Is that it?"

He gave her a rueful and guilty smile. "Does that make me a rogue, Christine? Finding enjoyment at such a time?"

Her own smile was faintly impish. "Maybe. But I love you anyway." She pecked him on the cheek. "Go on, dear."

Confessing his enjoyment seemed to release a tension he was holding in. He visibly relaxed, his arm around her a tad looser. "It's just…I've come up with a vague plan that I think might do both of us a world of good. A change in scenery."

"Oh?"

"When was the last time you were in Uppsala, Christine?"

This question surprised her, and brought a wave of nostalgia. "Why, I haven't been back since I left at age ten!"

Raoul's voice was very quiet and even. "Would you like to go back again someday?"

_Father. Sweden. _Tears studded her eyes, but it was a genuine answer she gave in a voice husky with emotion. "Yes."

"I'm glad to hear that. Because I've been reading up on law enforcement in Sweden, in such cities as Uppsala. Apparently there are a lot of good people working to keep Sweden safe, but it's all a bit decentralized. They're working on changing that. Well, I've always been an organizer at heart, and now I have a taste for police work. Maybe I could help them, in my own way. I don't feel comfortable living off your inheritance from Madame Valerius, Christine. Maybe if I can wrangle a reference from the fire marshal and a few others in Paris…."

Christine's eyes were ecstatically bright. "You could…? We could…?"

Raoul laughed. "How would you feel living in Uppsala with a husband in the _polisen_? No promises, of course, it's just an idea. But what do you think?"

She could say nothing, but her little squeak of mirth as she threw her arms around his neck, almost knocking him off the rock, was answer enough.

Yet waiting for them when they arrived back at their lodging was a letter from Paris's law enforcement that had nothing to do with references.

The de Chagnys had been summoned back to Paris. The date for the inquest was set.


	31. Chapter 31

The next day Madame Giry and Meg breakfasted together. It was a rare quiet morning for the two, with no immediate obligations tearing them away. Therefore Madame Giry sat languidly sipping her coffee (forbidden to her dancers, but she indulged in her private time) and Meg poured over the newspaper open on the table.

Madame Giry watched fondly as Meg eagerly devoured the paper with her eyes. From practically the first moment she learned how, Meg devoutly read the top news stories, a seemingly unusual pastime for a giddy young lady of the opera house. But Madame Giry knew better than anyone else that Meg possessed a keen mind ruled by curiosity, and the fact her exposure to the outside world was comparatively limited made her even hungrier to know what went on beyond the opera's walls.

Meg's quick eyes focused on something in the police section. "Mother!" She suddenly chirped. "Listen here: 'the police are looking for a notorious thief they believe has settled in Paris. He goes by many aliases, mostly using titles in the nobility. He is approximately forty-five years of age, with black hair and a gray goatee. He has a glass eye painted blue."

She shot her own bright eyes up to her mother. "That sounds just like the Count that's taken to sitting in the Phantom's box! Do you think…." She squirmed just slightly in her seat, her eyes alight with the promise of adventure. "Do you think this could be the man?"

For the opera house had finally reopened, though so far there had only been symphonies and the occasional choral arrangement. The managers seemed bent on selling the place after the final disaster during _Don Juan,_ until they witnessed the initial surge in ticket sales once the doors opened again.

As always, scenes of lurid reputations, heartbreak, and murder steadily drew in the macabre, and those who pretended _not_ to be macabre, but claimed only to attend so as "not to let that madman win".

Yet Madame Giry was called in to a meeting with the managers for later that afternoon, and she knew why: even with the ghoulish obsession the public had with the opera house, they were at last starting to tire of what they deemed the lackluster productions. They yearned for spectacle to go along with the moody atmosphere. Madame Giry knew the managers were in negotiations with some producer or composer, and soon there would be a real opera playing again.

_How quickly the young adapt, _Giry thought to herself as she listened to her child's excited patter. Meg, ever so industrious in her various activities in the wake of the disaster, had quickly re-embraced the childlike excitement and gossip that came with a new season at the opera house, the new faces in the crowd to peer at in the audience – such as that mysterious Count sitting in the Phantom's box.

_The Phantom._

Immediately Madame Giry's mood darkened. Her eyes dimmed. "It is no business of mine, my child," she answered in a low voice. Her eyes were sharp on Meg's. "And it is no business of yours, either. I do wish you'd remember that, Meg."

Meg lowered her head but looked up with guileless eyes and creased lips, as she always did when chastised by her mother: a half guilty, half quizzical expression.

In truth, it was a half-hearted reprimand. Madame Giry was tired. She knew, she _knew_ that Meg went down there. And…and she knew she couldn't stop her.

Helplessness, fatigue, and resignation filled her.

Meg would do just as Meg wished.

And it was time, perhaps, for Antoinette Giry to let her. She could not cage her darling bird.

And Erik….

Erik would not hurt her.

Giry closed her eyes. Yes, she'd known that since the beginning.

Erik – the madman, the murderer, the tortured soul gone berserk at Christine's rejection – he would not harm her daughter.

These ruminations were interrupted by a sharp insistent tap on their door.

The two only rolled their eyes and suppressed their groans. Their once quiet flat was now as busy as a bustling train station, their moments together constantly interrupted by some new business or another now that the opera house was reopened.

Yet their faces lost some of their color when Madame Giry opened the door to Andre, Firmin, and a policeman behind them.

All three faces were taciturn, save for the anxiety plain in the mangers' eyes.

Madame Giry carefully schooled her features into their usual stoic mask. "Can I help you gentlemen?" She asked coolly.

Firmin cleared his throat. "We – well, you and your daughter, too – we have been summoned, Madame. The date of the inquest has been set for 12:00 noon tomorrow."

Without a word, the tall gaunt policeman behind the managers reached one long arm between them and handed Madame Giry the summons.

She glanced down at the envelope, then steadily met the managers' eyes.

She read plainly their reason for coming here.

They were telling her quite simply that Madame Giry and her daughter were under suspicion and that the inquest may result in charges filed against them.

Madame Giry looked over her shoulder to her daughter.

She felt a spike of both pride and regret at the sight of Meg's brave squared shoulders, the large eyes that showed fear but also a hard determination.

* * *

Meg sat at the edge of her seat on the bench outside the courtroom. Her posture was stiff and unnatural, she knew. But she had only ever felt this nervous once before, when she charged down to Erik's lair and confronted him for the first time.

Meg desperately wished she could be with her mother, who was currently testifying.

The managers had also come by their apartment to inform them that – though they did not say so outright – the suspicion surrounding the mother and daughter meant that the police decreed it was to be a closed inquest. In other words, Madame Giry and Meg would testify separately.

Meg swallowed hard against the lump in her throat.

She started as the courthouse door cracked open just enough for one figure to slip out.

The figure of Raoul de Chagny.

"Raoul!" Meg exclaimed, jumping up. She forgot all pretense of rank and title as she greeted him by name, eagerly shaking his hands. "You're here!"

"In the flesh, Flibbertigibbet." He winked.

"I…I had no idea…."

"I'm afraid we had no time to write you once we received our summons. In fact, I believe that was the point. The magistrate doesn't know what to suspect, frankly, but I think he vaguely believes the four of us might be working together in some manner of conspiracy. Thus, the subtle maneuvering to get us all alone."

Meg tilted her head, confused. "Then how did you get in there just now?"

Raoul raised an eyebrow ruefully. "Even the magistrate's suspicions can't staunch the influence my name still carries. I try not to abuse that influence, but Christine sent me here early to see how things are going."

"And how is my mother doing?"

He laughed. "That mother of yours! She has the lot eating out of her clever hand. You've never seen such a pitiful sight as your mother sobbing into her handkerchief delicately, pleading ignorance." He imitated her quivering voice. "'Ah, Messieurs! I did only what I thought best! You see, I thought all those letters were from M. Lefevre and the managers! They were always signed with their names, but with the instruction that I say they were from the Opera Ghost, even in front of them! Oh, I thought it was just some fun to drum up extra publicity. I see now that it really was the Opera Ghost, or whoever this wicked person is. I had no idea….'" Raoul suddenly lowered his voice as he imitated the barrister. "'And where are these letters now, Madame?'" He simpered as Madame Giry again. "'Why…why they all disappeared from my cabinet the night before _Don Juan Triumphant. _I looked everywhere for them, but not a trace'…."

Raoul straightened and was himself again. "I'm not doing it justice at all, but she is _very_ convincing. I can see where you get your own acting talent from." He tweaked Meg's chin. "I wouldn't worry if I were you, my dear. I have a feeling you and your mother are going to get off just fine."

Meg almost sighed in relief. "And what about you and Christine?" She asked in a hushed voice.

Raoul shrugged. "We shall simply tell the truth. Nothing we can say will harm anyone. Christine was kidnapped, I pursued her, was threatened, but then – either through reawakened compassion or fear that the mob would reach him – the Phantom released us."

"Will you mention…you know…the kiss?"

Raoul was surprised. He hadn't known Christine told Meg about that…then again, maybe it was the Phantom himself who had told her. Raoul understood Christine's reasons for the kiss - that act alone saved him, saved her, saved that pitiful man from destroying all three lives - but the vicomte still didn't like thinking about it much. For all that it further proved the depths of his wife's kindness, he couldn't say he relished the memory of her passionately kissing another man.

"No, I see no need. They think the man is mad, so why shouldn't a mad man suddenly release a girl for no logical reason? I don't fear much for us; I'd wired the police anyway once we reached Perros. It's not _exactly_ like we deserted Paris without a word, though in hindsight it might look a little that way." He scratched the back of his neck a little warily. "I don't think the inspector was thrilled, which makes me a little uneasy. See, I plan to wrangle a reference out of him."

"A reference?"

"Yes…well, it's a long story and now's not the time to babble about my personal plans. Anyway, I want to sneak back in and see if I can serve as a strong shoulder for your mother to cry on when she's done testifying. Must keep up appearances. Hopefully she'll be done before Christine arrives from the hotel."

"So Christine _is_ coming?" Meg asked anxiously.

"Oh, yes. She's very nervous, so I wanted to stay with her. But like I said, she sent me ahead. I…I think she wanted some time alone."

Meg understood all too well. When overwhelmed, Christine sought solitude and _then_ comfort.

Raoul took her slightly trembling hands in his. "Don't you worry now, Flibbertigibbet. You'll be fine." As always, Meg felt nothing but joy that her vulnerable friend found such a supportive man as this, his smile one of the more comforting sights of the day.

"Thank you," she whispered.

One more wink and then he disappeared back inside. "Oh, blast!" Meg said to herself the moment he left. She had forgotten all about congratulating the newlywed man!

Luckily her chance was not gone with his other half. For at that moment Christine entered, pale but beautiful as always.

Both friends' faces lit up at the sight of the other.

"Christine!"

"Meg!"

They embraced, laughing and crying. Meg spread Christine's arms out like the first time they met, looking her over once more. "Oh, Christine, look at you: a bride! No," Meg corrected herself. "A wife!"

They embraced again. "It's seemed like ages since I left, Meg!"

"No wonder! A lifetime of changes has happened to you in the meantime. My, but what a couple of crows we are," Meg said deprecatingly, referring to their matching black dresses. Meg possessed so few regular garments that her mother insisted she wear the sober black reserved only for funerals. Christine, of course, still wore black in memory of Mamma Valerius.

"Christine, I'm so sorry," Meg said.

Tears glistened in Christine's eyes but she managed a sad smile. "Thank you. But she was happy, I think, in the end. At least I hope."

They sat on the bench together, holding hands.

Meg decided to take Christine's mind off this loss, since her friend had suffered enough already – and was about to dredge it all up again in the courtroom. "And what is married life like?" She asked in a quiet eager voice, leaning in with that familiar impish grin on her face. "Shall I start referring to you as Viscountess de Chagny, hmm?"

Christine laughed sardonically. "That title is the one thing I'm not thrilled about. I hate the way the papers are talking about it: that I married for that title, or that Raoul only married me to defy his family. And while I admit Raoul certainly has a strong rebellious streak, I can't say he's much enjoying defying his sister. She's a terror, though I haven't met her yet."

"And Raoul himself? How is he as a husband?"

Christine's features seemed to melt from within. "Meg…you have no idea. All the little fantasies I concocted about him as a child, they are all so silly and shallow compared to having him truly at my side."

Meg squeezed her hand. "You're happy, then?"

"Yes." Meg looked at her quizzically. There was serenity in Christine's reply, but an underlying sense something was off. Christine noticed Meg's look and elaborated. "I mean, I'd be happier if I knew…." Boring her eyes into Meg's, Christine asked in a small whisper. "How is he, Meg? How is he _really_?"

In her mind's eye, Meg could see only a solitary figure in a dark lair, standing staring into the black around him. "Sad but alive," Meg answered simply. She tried smiling encouragingly. "He'll be all right, Christine."

Christine's dark eyes lowered to the floor. "I do hope so."

Meg fidgeted nervously, wondering how to broach the topic that had been weighing on her mind since her visit to Carlotta. "Christine…I know I said I'd never bring him up to you without your leave, but since you brought Erik up yourself…."

Christine blinked, confused. "Erik? Who's Erik?"

"Oh, I forgot you might not know. That's his name."

"Erik," Christine enunciated slowly. "I…I never even asked him what his name was…" Her shoulders slumped under the weight of what she perceived as her self-centered behavior. _We could never have been, how could he not see that until the end? Even before I took off his mask, I never saw him as a man who could have an actual name. No. He was either an angel or a pitiful creature to me, never the man he deserved to be. We both need someone real, who acknowledges us as such._

"Never mind about that, Christine," Meg hastened to assuage her guilt, patting Christine's arm with her quick hand. "I wouldn't have thought of it either in your shoes! No, don't blame yourself. That's silly. But there's something that _isn't _silly." She bit her lip, hesitant to unload her troubled mind on her even more troubled friend. But at last determined, she blurted out, "I'm at a loss. He's destroyed lives. Carlotta's in such a state! And here I am looking after him! Christine, how do I reconcile that?" She looked at her friend pleadingly, penetratingly.

Yet Christine's eyes were fogged over in a dark reverie. "I can't answer that for you, Meg," she said in a faraway voice. "I know it might not seem fair to ask this of you, but you must…_must_ keep your promise and continue looking after him for me." The singer's lips trembled, but her steady, foggy eyes never left Meg's. "You helped me find confidence when I was just a shaking girl in toe shoes, Meg…I never realized how much you helped me until recently. You can do the same for him, maybe. Until he finds his own way."

The friends were silent for a moment. Then the courthouse doors swung open.

"Mother!" Meg called out, jumping to her feet.

Madame Giry was practically wailing as she stumbled out of the courtroom with Raoul at her side, her handkerchief pressed to her face. She was a quaking tower of dignified but helpless vulnerability, a defeated and plaintive Hecuba.

She flung her arms out as soon as she saw her daughter. "Oh, my poor girl! Come to me!" Madame Giry threw her arms around Meg, seemingly sobbing into the girl's neck.

Yet Meg heard her mother whisper rapidly and calmly into her ear: _"Stick to your story, Meg. You know nothing."_

The dancer couldn't help the very small, wicked smile of pride that she quickly hid in her mother's shoulder.

* * *

Meg felt like a sleepwalker as she entered the practically empty courtroom and crossed numbly over to the witness stand. Three men sat at the table in front of her and the bored-looking but austere magistrate sat above her to the right.

The questions asked were quick, clipped. In the sincerest voice she could muster, Meg echoed her mother's story: the Giry women were innocents caught up in a madman's web, and Meg remembered nothing but terror throughout her childhood when whoever this man was made his presence known. Meg remembered the late Joseph Buquet cornering her before he died and regaling her with stories about a shortcut to the Phantom's lair. The night of _Don Juan, _Meg followed those instructions. Although she'd always doubted his words before, Meg found that they had indeed been correct here, and she reached the lair before the others. She arrived in just enough time to see the Phantom on his gondola escaping out the Rue Scribe gate.

She certainly did not know why no one saw a trace of him afterward. But if he could deceive her mother for all these years, who is a very intelligent woman, then maybe it's not so surprising after all.

Luckily her fear worked to her advantage as she spoke, since the members of the inquest took one look at this frail girl with her trembling hands and big eyes and saw a perfect picture of innocence.

"Thank you, mademoiselle," the magistrate said at last. "You may leave."

Releasing another quiet breath of relief, Meg stood and courtseyed awkwardly. She saw this bring patronizing smiles to a few faces. _They think I'm silly, an addle-brained little ninny. Good. After all, that's not too far from the truth right now._

As she crossed to the exit she felt the same as Raoul had: like she and her mother were in the clear. After all, what evidence against them was there, really? Madame Giry had burned all of Erik's letters (except those few Meg was able to sneak out beforehand and hide behind her closet - who knows when they might come in handy, and besides - well, Meg was curious). The managers were too flustered and taken up with the reopened opera house to take much time to contradict any of her statements, plus they had already testified.

No, surely they were all right now. She'd wait outside for Raoul and Christine to finish their testimony, and then maybe they could all finally go on with their lives – at least, as much as they could with Erik still to look after.

However, just before she reached the doors, Meg spied a figure at the back she hadn't noticed before.

He was a slender man of indeterminate age, though if Meg had to guess, she'd say older rather than younger. He had a lean, pinched face and a tall slim frame, from what she could see of him where he sat. His complexion was swarthy, his manner quiet. He wore a unique cap made of some sort of dark wool, almost wedge-shaped. He must have been there since the beginning of the inquest.

What really struck her, though, was the look in his stony eyes.

It was a look of grim satisfaction, as if any suspicions he might have held were confirmed, not dispelled.

* * *

**A/N: Updates might be a bit infrequent for a while, but they're coming, honest! I know a lot of you Merik fans are probably chomping at the bit, seeing as the last two chapters haven't even had our favorite masked loon in them. But, well...there's more coming, not to fret. :P**


	32. Chapter 32

Erik was reading Spinoza in his armchair when he heard Meg's footsteps above. He shifted in his seat and stared determinedly at the pages in front of him. One of the reasons for the miniscule leap in his blood pressure was due to the still novel notion of voluntary visitors to his abode; and the other was that this visitor in question was the aggravating, curious, kittenish Meg Giry – a paradox of kindness and charm enveloped in an annoying busy-body shell.

Yet there was no denying that face was enjoyable to look upon even in the dim light of his lower lair.

And Erik had so few enjoyments left him. Although this face was not the one that haunted him, it…_interested_ him. At least, so far as anything interested him now.

She entered with a box full of new lantern bulbs, in a continued effort to lighten the lair in order to make it more "cheerful", as she put it.

"Good morning, Monsieur Erik!" She rang out, curls bouncing as she headed to the small oaken table against the wall.

"You seem in good humor today," Erik mumbled in acknowledgement, one eye on her and the other on Spinoza's words. "No censuring gaze or eye of fury this morning, I see."

He was pleased despite himself when he saw a spark of fire in the green eyes she shot momentarily at him. But clearing her throat delicately and chin up the barest amount, she instead said, "Not _yet, _monsieur. I am indeed in good humor, as you say." As if to prove her point, she started humming as she took out the bulbs and placed them on the table.

"Oh? Are they going to play another opera? Is that what's lifting your spirits?" He tried to keep the interest out of his voice. _Remember, monster, that after Christine left you disowned your former life. You may dwell here still, but the opera is no longer your domain. Keep yourself hidden and deny yourself the concerns of above._

But how to stick to that resolution when a physical manifestation of those concerns was currently humming some ridiculous ditty as she wiped down lantern bulbs?

"No word on that currently," Meg replied. "Mother suspected the managers were going to speak to her on that, but then," She wiggled her shoulders, obviously dying to tell him what she was about to tell him. "Then we were called in to the inquest!"

A sharp intake of breath on Erik's part. _Christine! Was Christine there? _"So it finally happened. And…?"

Meg whirled around and the wide smile on her face practically blinded him. _Lord, what a pretty girl _(a totally objective appraisal on his part. Completely objective). "And everything went wonderfully, perfectly!" She spoke rapidly. "Mother was wonderful. She explained everything so beautifully. And I…well, I passed muster, that's all that matters. If I say so myself, I believe we are all free of suspicion!"

She carefully emphasized _everyone _without naming anyone in particular, which was her bid to let him know Christine was safe without actually saying her name. Just as she had made sure not to mention Erik too much to Christine, so she tried not bringing Christine up too often with him. For one thing, she knew it hurt him, and despite his crimes he'd been hurt enough in life; for another, well – it probably wasn't fair to the true injured party in this case (Christine) to constantly mention her to the man she'd probably would rather forget her.

But this way Erik was able to tell Christine's testimony went well. Like they had with Meg, the inquest board must have been impressed by the singer's tremulous air of innocence. Besides, as Raoul pointed out, the married couple had in fact done nothing wrong aside from failing to report to the police.

The Girys and de Chagnys dined together after the inquest and rehashed everything. Raoul also sheepishly revealed his ambitions for the Swedish police force, and his fears he might have ruined his chances before he even began. The way he presented his story to the magistrate, he tried to portray himself as a well-meaning but hapless sort of figure who didn't realize that taking himself and his wife to the police right after saving her was the right thing to do rather than run straight away to Perros-Guirec. That might not impress the Paris officials, from whom he might need a reference or two.

Now that Meg felt convinced there would be no more questioning from the police, this quandary of Raoul's weighed most heavily on her soul. The way he talked about his aspirations sounded so perfect! Raoul, one of the bravest and noblest people she knew, as a member of the police! In Sweden! Oh, how wonderful for Christine that would be! Of course she, Meg, did not relish the idea of her friend so far away. But what a true fairytale ending for that friend! Meg would not begrudge Christine that.

None of this she revealed to Erik as she turned back to finish wiping out a smudge that had gathered on one of the bulbs. She frowned as she realized the silence from his corner was a little _too_ quiet – deafening and tense.

She turned to see the dark light from his eyes behind his mask focusing on her. This look brought a surprising fluttering to her chest, an odd warmth she'd never experienced before. Blinking the feeling away, she asked, "Well, what's the matter? They think you've fled, shouldn't that make you just a little bit relieved?"

"And you are absolutely sure that is what they think?" His voice was even.

"What makes you think they don't?"

"Nothing, really. Only it's never very wise to feel too secure about anything like this, little Meg."

Again that odd fluttering, this time as he said her first name. She shook her head. _Nonsense. _"Oh, you're just like Mother!" She said dismissively. Madame Giry was incredibly withdrawn and quiet over dinner – more so than usual, even. Quietly Meg asked her about the one thing other than Raoul's future that still worried her – the man with the odd cap at the back of the courtroom.

Her first answer was two black eyes filled with the most painful anxiety. Then a quiet voice: "I did not see the cap, as he was standing half concealed in the shadows when I arrived. I still noticed him, though. And I could swear I've seen his face before…." She'd trailed off as an odd look of bewilderment briefly crossed her face. "But where?" She seemed to speak mainly to herself. "That cap you described…but _who_…?"

She would say no more about it.

Meg deliberately made herself forget this now as she spoke to Erik. "Everything will be fine," she said adamantly, sweeping away the last of the dust from where it collected on the table. "I don't see what good living in constant fright will do anyone."

Erik shrugged, returning to his book. "As you wish."

Meg couldn't quite describe why, but she felt discomfited by this response. She was used to his argumentative retorts: they had become the standard for interactions with him. His uninterested acceptance made her more uneasy than anything else had.

She shuffled a bit uncertainly, then affecting carelessness she pressed, "All right, so what do _you_ think is going to happen? Think we'll all be arrested?"

Again that demon's glance that seared into her over the book's pages. He suddenly looked tired, older – yet somehow more vital than ever. "Believe it or not, I do not know _everything_, Miss Giry." He sniffed disdainfully. "I have seldom been taken in by palm readings and prophecies and the like. Better to just keep your pretty eyes and ears open, girl. Save yourself getting caught unawares."

"_Such as now, monsieur?"_

Meg shrieked and whirled around at this stranger's voice. Meg and Erik's words had drowned out the sound of the throne coming down.

There stood the figure from the courtroom, wedge-shaped woolly cap still on and his face more full of quiet satisfaction than ever.

"Who are you?" Erik barked, striding forward, yanking Meg behind him.

The man's serene hazel eyes met Erik's without any violence. "You do not recognize me, monsieur? Ah, no great surprise there. You must have seen me only once or twice, when I was barely older than you at the time. Even Anahid hasn't recognized me."

Meg noted something slightly foreign in his accent. _Anahid? Who's Anahid?_

"Well, I gather Persia is the origin of our acquaintance, if you are not lying about that," Erik hissed out through bared teeth. "But if you do not elaborate now, then I shall" – He lifted his arm, but it was too late: whoever this figure was already had his hand at the level of his eyes.

"I would not do anything too hasty, monsieur," the man said smoothly. "You see, even as we speak, a fellow officer is perched at the opening of the throne seat." He raised his voice. "And what do you have in your hands, Cedric?"

"A smoke bomb," a voice answered from above, again causing Meg to jump.

Raising an arch brow, the stranger gestured to the throne. "Join me above, monsieur, mademoiselle?"

* * *

Numb terror squeezed Meg's chest as she ascended first – the strange figure below made sure to join them last, in order to keep an eye on the slippery Erik's back.

Once Meg was in the upper lair again, she gasped.

Along with a stout mustachioed man in plain clothes who held a canister warningly in his hand, there stood the harried managers – and her mother.

Meg ran to her. "Mother"—

"Say nothing," she hissed. "I know as little as you do. I was speaking with the managers when this lot rushed in and dragged us here – showing us their badges and claiming they are the secret police."

_Secret police? _The war drum in Meg's heart beat again. _Paris has a secret police force. And two of them are here. With us. How…extraordinary! And awful, of course. But…extraordinary, still!_

She felt a detached thrill.

At last Erik and the policeman from below joined them. The former's face was stoic and still beneath the mask, the latter's casual and – Meg could not lie to herself – not unkind.

Firmin and Andre sputtered at the sight of the erstwhile Phantom. Both men's faces held fury and terror in equal measure. "Y-you!" Firmin cried out at last, pointing at the man. "You've been here the whole time!"

A quiet bow from Erik that stung more than any nasty retort.

Next the managers turned their stormy gazes to Meg. "So," Firmin fumed. "Miss Daae was not the only one entangled in the madman's web. You too have become his lover."

At that Madame Giry was suddenly nose to nose with Firmin, eyes wild with rage. "If you dare even imply such a thing again, I will make you rue it. I swear."

The stranger approached and with a gentle hand steered the enraged mother away from Monsieur Firmin. "I would not be so hasty, Anahid. You have no say in any such matter at the moment."

Madame Giry's dark eyes flickered at the mention of that name. Meg only grew more puzzled. _There's that 'Anahid' name again! Why is he calling Mother that? Why?_

She waited for her mother to correct him but the ballet mistress only scrutinized this stranger's face. "I know you. It is obvious you know me. Who are you?"

The man's grin was melancholy. "How the years have changed us, Anahid. I was only a very young man of about eighteen, after all, when you, Erik, and your late husband fled Persia. But I never forgot you, nor your late father's kindness to me. He took the disgraced orphan of executed Babi dissenters and turned the boy not only into his most trusted servant but his pupil as well. Do you really not recognize me? After all, you helped give me my earliest lessons, and got me a job as page to the police force after your father died" –

Epiphany widened Madame Giry's midnight eyes, more vast than ever. _"Darius…_Darius Shahzad."

His turn to bow.

Anahid could say nothing. _How he'd changed…_the reedy sad-eyed boy was now gray at the temples and calm, so very calm. _Darius…._

Realization was dawning in Erik's half-face as well. "Yes…you were indeed a boy, like I was…you ran errands for me…."

"For everyone," this man called Darius elaborated. "You see, monsieur, I was one of the first to realize your days were numbered in the Persian court. I let Anahid know. I had no idea she meant to flee the country with you."

Suddenly a high-pitched, desperate voice: "Hold on, hold on!" Meg looked frantic. "What…what's going on? Persia? Anahid? Darius? What"—she ran to her mother and clutched her hands. "Mother, you know what they're talking about? What's all this about your father and…and a police force?"

She was a little girl again. Her mother's heart broke.

_No choice anymore. My daughter is strong. She can survive this. She can survive._

Gentle hands on each side of Meg's face. "Yes, my love. I know what they are talking about. I was born Anahid Najami, daughter to the chief of police in the shah's court of Persia. There I met Erik and your father, an ambassador from Paris." She absently ran her finger through one sunny ringlet on Meg's temple. "It…it is a long story, sweet girl."

Meg looked, looked hard at her mother. Looked at that face more familiar than any in the world to her. Looked for what was different now. Looked for the obvious signs she had missed her whole life.

As Anahid stared into her daughter's large mystified eyes, she readied herself for any reaction, any at all.

Her heart felt about to burst with joy when suddenly Meg dived into her embrace, burying her head into her mother's shoulder, the dancer's arms tight around the older woman.

Anahid sent wordless thanks to all the deities she was never sure she believed in as she held to her chest the one light in her life.

In spite of the managers' bemusement, Darius's mission, and Erik's caginess, each person in that lair felt touched by the image of mother and daughter erasing all lies between them and finding acceptance.

_This, this is love, _Erik thought. _Not like what I feel for Christine, of course. No, that is the love of a tragic fairytale, ecstatic and doomed. No, this, this is the instinctive love every creature is born yearning for, yet so many never receive._

The shaky image of his own mother appeared before his eyes and he was suddenly crushed with sorrow for the boy he once was.

Yet Darius returned them to the present. "I hate to force you to reveal everything you worked so hard to conceal to your daughter, Anahid," he said in a low sincere voice. "But my life has changed as well. When you left, Persia was no longer safe for me. The shah in his fury accused me as your accomplice, so I too fled to Europe. I've worked on Paris's secret police force for many years now. I knew from the moment I heard gossip about the opera ghost – the so-called ghost's tricks and apparent interest in music and the arts - that the true identity of the Phantom was none other than the boy from court. Yet like you, I still felt pity for Erik. So long as he didn't hurt anyone, I thought, what's the harm? Then," his eyes glowed. "Then he _did _start hurting people. I've been away for over a year, tracking a criminal masquerading in the aristocracy. When my efforts to find him failed, I returned to Paris where they think he now dwells, and I heard reports of the chandelier's fall, the _Don Juan _disaster, and the corpses in both events' wake. And I knew I must do _something_, Anahid."

He tilted his head. "I did not expect to find you wrapped up in all this, but when I saw you at the courthouse, everything came together. I didn't recognize you right away, seeing as you acted the part of the flustered matron so well. But something about you…my suspicions were confirmed when I saw your daughter." He nodded to Meg. "She may have the coloring of her French father, but something in those features…." A fond nostalgic light in his eyes. "Ah, there is Persia."

_Persia, _Meg repeated in her head. The room was spinning – but in an exhilarating way. _Persia. _She brought a hand to those very features of hers, feeling them as if for the first time.

Darius continued. "So, I tracked her down here, and then I gave the signal out the Rue Scribe gate for Cedric. We gathered you and Messieurs Firmin and Andre."

At the mention of their names, the managers sprung to life again. "Yes, well, are you to arrest them?" Andre asked harshly, looking first at the Girys and then hesitantly at the Phantom, whose arms were crossed as he listened silently.

Meg squeezed her mother's hand.

Darius's eyes were now deeply sorrowful. "I am sorry, Anahid," he practically whispered. "But the law is the law. You have hidden a murderer" –

"No!" Meg eagerly cut in. She stood between Darius and her mother, a pathetic but touching human shield. "No, you've got it all wrong! _I've_ been the one watching over Erik! Mother's had nothing to do with it!"

"Hush, Meg," Anahid said soothingly, a hand firm on Meg's shoulder. "You only took up my mantle. I've been looking after him all these years beforehand."

The managers started up again, filled with remonstrances, but Darius shot his hand up in the air, halting them. "Yes, so I thought. All three of you are currently under arrest, I am afraid."

A shiver rattled everyone's spine as Erik began to cackle ominously. "At last! The music of the night is truly done!" And he laughed all the more hysterically, arms out. He looked broken, mad, and dangerous.

Meg suddenly found herself wanting to comfort him, steady him. She reached out, but then she saw the policeman called Cedric approach her mother.

She was lost, small, afraid, she didn't know what to do – "WAIT!"

It was her own small voice, now full of authority. Darius glanced at her. "Yes, mademoiselle?"

Darius was surprised the once sheepish, bewildered eyes of Meg Giry were now sharp and focused, like an alley cat defending its prey. "Listen here, monsieur," she said rapidly. "You mentioned a criminal earlier. Would I be right in assuming he's the one mentioned in the paper a while back?"

Darius frowned, puzzled at this apparent nonsequitur. "It is indeed," he at last assented.

She sped up to him and grabbed his wrist. Her back was as straight as a sergeant-major's. "I've seen him. Seen him here in this opera house. I know it."

Her eyes narrowed as she watched Darius's face. "And you know he comes here, don't you? That's why you returned to the opera house, not just because of Monsieur Erik."

He would reveal nothing.

Meg gave a conspiratorial smile. "But you don't have evidence enough to catch him!"

"What is the girl blathering about?" Firmin exclaimed impatiently.

Now both small hands were clutching at Darius's. "Listen to me, monsieur. You have at your fingertips three wonderful resources: the Phantom of the Opera, a former member of the Persian secret police, and…well, me. A performer sees a lot, you know. I have access to all sorts of gossip. With that and Erik and my mother's experience, we can…we can…_spy!_"

She let the word hang there, not in the least embarrassed or doubtful of its use.

Still, the initial reaction of everyone present was almost to laugh – but then, a simultaneous realization throughout the room:

What she said made sense.

But no…it was ridiculous, surely.

Before anyone could ruminate further, Meg hurried on. "Our service at your will in exchange for our freedom! And this way you can keep a close eye on us as well! We'll serve you as long as need be." Now those eyes were yearning, beseeching. "Won't you please, _please_ consider it?"

Silence now. Darius's face was as empty of discernible emotion as the Death's Head at Masquerade.

Madame Giry spoke before him. "Madness! I did not bring you up to see you fall into my same former life, Meg!" She practically trembled with vehemence. "No, it's madness."

"Total madness," Cedric spoke for the first time. There was something managerial and overly officious about him; in a way, his manner reminded Meg of Reyer's, only less comical. This man was obviously no fool, and he had the air of faint but fond exasperation when interacting with the calm Darius. "You aren't seriously considering this, are you, Shahzad?"

Darius's eyes never left Meg's.

His voice was speculative. "We have as yet to report them to anyone outside our own crew…we could possibly place them under house arrest…."

An immensely likable grin stretched his face. "It might be mad, but it might also work."

Meg ignored the sounds of surprise around her. She saw only that odd gleam of camaraderie in Darius's eyes. Then he said swiftly: "We shall let you know, mademoiselle, after we consult our associates. In the meantime, we shall have our policemen posted around the clock outside your flat and the opera house. Same for you down here, Monsieur le Fantome." Then he turned on his heel and left a sputtering Cedric to take care of the details.

Meg watched as the managers erupted in protests, her mother's eyes close sadly in resignation, and Darius disappear down yet another passage way. She watched through the blood pumping in her temples, the excitement coursing through her veins.

And Erik watched her, watched her become the mouse that was learning to roar.


	33. Chapter 33

Meg bent her head over her pointe shoes as she sewed on new ribbons, determined that she appear focused solely on that task. Yet a close observer – such as her mother sitting nearby – could see that from where the girl sat on the floor in their flat, her eyes would occasionally drift hesitantly up to that very mother. Studying her reactions.

Her efforts with her pointe shoes was a deliberate ploy. If her mother saw that Meg still held ballet as her first priority, she might not be so incensed that the French Secret Police had just that morning accepted Meg's offer. The Girys and Erik were due at the station tomorrow morning.

The police were still stationed outside their door. Unsmiling and indifferent, they had not inspired Meg to converse with them in any great depth. She found herself invariably tongue-tied in their presence, and she'd scurry in and out of the flat like a mouse with a cat close behind. Privately, the officers took bets on how long the skittish girl would last in the force.

She had not seen Erik since that day in the lair. She knew that Darius Shahzad made sure the best men from the secret police were assigned to watch the Phantom, which included he and Cedric in shifts.

Meg was surprised by how much she…_missed_ Monsieur Erik. He was nothing but trouble, a walking representation of everything cynical and bitter. He was overdramatic, passionately angry at the outside world, and full of melancholy.

Yet there was that hint of compassion within his mismatched eyes, the tremor of deep emotion in his tenor voice that Meg did not know she'd grown somewhat accustomed to until she was no longer in his presence.

But all that would change tomorrow morning. They would be reunited.

Meg hummed with artificial thoughtlessness, trying desperately to appear nonchalant about everything. Except for when they arrived home from the lair that night, when Madame Giry had positively exploded at her daughter about the stupidity of her plan, there were no words spoken between them about the arrangement. There'd hardly been any words spoken between them at all—just lingering glances from Madame Giry that almost looked like panic.

Now that they'd received word confirming everything, Meg knew it was only a matter of time before Madame Giry berated her again. Yet valiantly Meg hoped supposed indifference on her part would stall the conversation.

Inside, Meg practically vibrated with pent-up excitement. Her veins were on fire and her heart thumped wildly in her chest. She…she was a spy now. Or would be, soon. She, little Meg Giry! This thought alone brought a pink bloom to her cheeks not unnoticed by her mother.

Meg hated to admit it considering the circumstances surrounding her induction into the secret police, but she was happy. Very happy.

Yet that didn't stop her from practically jumping in the air as her mother finally snapped, banging shut the ledger she'd been pretending to work on.

One look into those grave dark eyes, and Meg knew the time had unavoidably come to Talk.

"Yes, Mother?" She asked in meek resignation.

Her beating heart stilled as the silence stretched. Her mother's face was immobile, unreadable.

She must be absolutely furious.

What Meg couldn't know was that Madame Giry wasn't looking at her daughter in anger. She was trying instead to memorize the way Meg looked now: sitting sprawled like a child on the floor in her usual tutu, her wild strawberry blonde curls tumbling down her face and shoulders, the only weapon in her hand a sewing needle that hovered uncertainly now over her small pointe shoes.

_Will this be the last time I ever see her so untouched, so guileless, so…Meg? _This was the sad mantra Madame Giry repeated to herself now.

Meg sat waiting.

At last her mother spoke. "I remember my first assignment."

This captured Meg's attention completely. Because of her fear of her mother's temper, Meg had steered clear of pressing her about her recently revealed past. Yet now….

"Yes?" Meg asked breathlessly.

Madame Giry closed her eyes, and memory seemed to make her impressive face look more alive, more expressive.

"It was soon after my father died. I had run little errands for him before, but this…the shah asked me to dance for one of his advisors. It was a very simple task. I was to study this advisor and let the shah know whether he favored wine or beer at night. After only somewhat successfully evading the advisor's advances for the night, I went back and reported that it was wine. The next night it was announced that he'd died after drinking his usual glass – sudden heart failure, they said, though one of the guards confided in me that he'd heard it was poison."

Madame Giry opened her eyes and they shot straight through to her daughter's heart. "I was sixteen."

The pink left her daughter's cheeks.

"Could you do that, Meg?"

The question was asked in a simple flat voice. That made it sting all the more.

"No, Mother, no!" Her face was now red.

"Then how do you think you could ever be a spy?" There was a hard, weary note to her words.

Meg flew quickly to her mother, on her knees before her, clutching her hands. The girl's eyes were pleading, sweet, and so very willful. "That was terrible, Mother, and I hate that you went through it! But this time – this time it won't be like that! Paris is different."

Madame Giry shook her head slowly. "No place is different from any other, Meg. You…you don't know that yet. Despite the Persian blood running through your veins, just as much as the French, you've grown up with the prejudices of this country, whether you realize it or not. You think of Persia as some exotic den of primitive savagery, and Paris a civilized oasis – good vs. evil."

Meg shook her head vehemently. "No. No, I don't think that at all."

Her mother's hand ran through the dancer's hair. "Yes, you do. You think you don't, but you do. You are a kind, open-minded girl, but that is what you think all the same. Let me tell you something, Meg: corruption is universal. It corrodes every government, every society, every country. You will find yourself asked to do things you wouldn't dream the nice people in suits and curled mustaches would ever ask of you. And then you must choose how much you value your freedom over your morals."

Madame Giry recognized the little head tilt, the innocent but penetrating look in those eyes. "I never heard you speak this way before," Meg whispered mystified.

Madame Giry said nothing.

Meg fiddled with a loose thread on her mother's dress. "Would you rather I had said nothing down in the lair? We'd all be under arrest."

Another small moment of silence. "I don't know, my child. I don't know."

"Well, I do." Meg said with a sudden burst of fire, facing her mother squarely. "I know it was that kindness you always try to hide that made you flee Persia, made you protect Monsieur Erik all these years. That and love for me. Well, I won't see you imprisoned for it. Nor Erik. He's a louse who's done evil things, but…but this could be his chance! His chance to do good! Oh, I know, I know you think Paris is as bad a place as everywhere else, but look me in the eye and tell me you think Darius Shahzad is as evil as all that! You can't, because you're fond of him, and I can tell, I can just tell he's a good man. Besides," She threw back her thick mane. She was suddenly matter-of-fact, almost but not quite flippant. "Who knows. This might all prove to be…rather fun!" Small shrug.

"Oh!" Madame Giry exclaimed, standing and pacing the room. She muttered some Persian curses under her breath Meg didn't understand. "Nothing I said has made any impact on you, has it? Nothing at all!"

Meg just sat still, trying but mostly failing to look shame-faced for her mother.

Madame Giry seemed to speak mostly to herself. "When I think of how Julien and I promised ourselves you would never fall into such a life…." She trailed off, biting her lower lip and shaking her head.

Meg's quiet voice: "Will you tell me about him? About you? I know so little."

A small shiver ran up Madame Giry's spine. No tears, however.

"You have already heard all the pertinent facts. Darius revealed everything you need to know."

Meg frowned. "You know I want to hear more than that. I want to know…who he was, who you were…are."

Anahid solemnly bowed her head. "I cannot simply begin like that. That's far too general. Ask me specific questions and I will answer as I can." She sat herself down in the wicker chair by the table. There was nothing but honesty to her now.

Meg scrambled to think of something that would…that would…that would get at the heart of things. "Was he a...a kind man? As kind as he seemed, helping you rescue Monsieur Erik?"

Her mother tilted her head in a way very similar to her daughter – one of the few physical gestures beyond dance the two suddenly appeared to share. "Yes, he was kind…kind, but when I met him, he was very unsatisfied in life. Unfulfilled. He had great ambition…to do what, I don't think even he knew. But I believe he yearned to help someone. Yearned to do some great thing."

"And did he find greatness in you?" Meg asked, craving a picture of passionate romance.

Yet the opaque eyes of her mother would hide forever the great depth of that passionate love. Some things you must keep close to your heart, away from even those you love, if you want those things to remain yours and yours alone. "Maybe in part," she confessed at last. "But our relationship was based just as much on companionship and trust as it was on romance. He…"

She squinted her eyes, staring at something ahead of her. Meg instinctively felt she was searching for the right words. She was trying to decipher in her mind what she wanted, _needed_ to say.

At last she found it, simply and succinctly. There was a hint of surprise in her voice as she spoke, as if the realization was so obvious she couldn't believe she'd missed it all these years. "He was the greatest man I ever knew."

Warmth radiated in Meg's chest.

It was vastly comforting to know that no matter what happened tomorrow, Meg had in her veins the blood of the greatest man her mother ever knew and the greatest woman Meg ever knew.

* * *

**A/N: Quite the short chapter, but hopefully it will do before more action, drama, and the like appear on the horizon!**


	34. Chapter 34

Officer Stephen Marcus bit his lip so as not to laugh incredulously.

He stood with his other three associates, along with Chief Inspectors Darius Shahzad and Cedric Berger, in the underground level that made up their branch of Paris's secret police headquarters. Above ground stood the front offices of the police's central postal services, an adequate cover for their operations. The Girys and the Phantom were whisked through the crowd of bustling postal workers and down the winding staircase to the present establishment.

Their presence was the cause of Marcus's fight to staunch his laughter.

His fellow associates were Jacques Chauvet, a former Navy captain from the Caribbean whose infectious laugh and casual manners made him a favorite at clubs and parlors despite his dark skin and accent; Henrik Heglin, a Swiss transfer with wild red whiskers who was never more serious than when at a game of cards; and David Perrin, a nondescript young lieutenant whose thin, bland appearance covered a genial soul. He was Marcus's closest friend on the force, despite their stark differences in temperament and background.

For Perrin came from a respectable upper middle-class family of war heroes and policemen. He'd worked steadily for a few years in the Surete, until it was discovered by Shahzad's sharp eye that the young man possessed the uncanny ability to seemingly sink into the background and disappear, making others forget or at least dismiss his unimpressive presence. Thus, he'd been recruited to the secret police, and proved so far invaluable as just another face in the crowd, whose ears were always open to secrets a more notable figure would never be privy to.

Marcus, however, came from rougher origins.

Born to a French carnival barker and English trapeze artist, the young Marcus found himself homeless and in effect orphaned at the age of eleven. His father and the carnival left his pregnant unwed mother stranded in Paris, and his harried mother tried raising him on her own as a "laundress." The bastard boy took his mother's own family name. Her fits of temper and self-pity were so exhausting to mother and son both that when she passed away of some form of consumption and conniption fit his eleventh year, her young son felt only a lingering regret but mostly relief.

He took out to the street and became a rather successful pick-pocket. By age fourteen, he was a _very s_uccessful pick-pocket. By age sixteen, he'd moved on to robbery and cons. By age nineteen, he was a crucial member of an underground Parisian gang. He became an "Apache" of the first order.

He was not a terribly conventionally handsome man, but there was a dark, rustic look about him that often appealed to the ladies. He had an angular face and a hawk nose broken in the middle, making it veer off rather quizzically to the left. His eyes were of a disarmingly pale blue-green shade in a weather-beaten, tanned face framed by long dark brown hair. His smile was crooked and frightening, and all the more alluring to adventurous ladies because of it. As for height, he was only about average, but his thick broad shoulders and narrow waist made him seem quite a bit more than that.

It was the result of a raid on his gang that led him to Darius Shahzad. The glum, rebellious Marcus was sitting whistling and punchy in a holding cell when suddenly the door to his cell opened and standing before him was rather an austere looking toff (as his cockney mother would have said) with a fuzzy cap and penetrating but lazy hazel eyes. The man smiled oddly and asked if Marcus was looking to reduce his sentence.

Some twelve years later, and here he was. Respectable now, practically. With his natural charm and swagger, he was able to maintain his underground connections to help him feed information to his new employers. Now thirty-two years of age, his dark hair was now cut a respectable length, his face shaven, and his clothes fashionable but properly somber for his profession. If it weren't for the mischievous wild gleam in those pale eyes, combined with that arresting face and build, there would exist little evidence that the clean-cut man ever knew a less than comfortable and respectable life.

He'd arrived back in Paris along with the de Chagnys, having trailed the couple not long after they fled Paris for Perros-Guirec. He'd gathered no real personal opinion of the adoring couple, of the melancholy cast of the brunette bride or the masculine worry of the blond groom. He'd only faithfully reported their movements to Darius and then returned when the Persian officer said it was time to. Darius wanted to be alone at the inquest, so this was the first time Marcus beheld the Giry women, not to mention the infamous opera ghost.

He and the other men had wheedled Darius and Cedric for more information about the three after their confrontation in the lair (Marcus was bitter he'd not been asked to accompany them). Always with an eye on the ladies, Marcus was especially curious about the young mademoiselle who'd volunteered to join their ranks.

Cedric was still recovering from that confrontation's results and he blustered and blowed more than even usual. When asked point-blank what the young dancer was like, he replied with one choice word: "Foolhardy!"

When asked the same question, a queer look of surprise and admiration appeared in Darius's eyes as he thought of Meg. "Still waters run deep," he murmured.

From those rather disparate descriptions, Marcus anticipated the most enticing, secretive mademoiselle. Perrin heard through his opera-loving mother that she was very pretty, after all.

When the three appeared, two met Marcus's expectations. Madame Antoinette Giry – birth name Anahid Najami – looked exactly as he imagined a ballet mistress with a shady past should: imperious, pallid, and with a belittling but wise look in her eyes. Her erect carriage increased her aloof air and she wore a black almost as lifeless and stark as her hair wound tightly and severely around her head in a braid.

And the Phantom! He hovered behind the group, a good three inches taller than any other man in the room. His cloak's collar was up, obscuring most of his face along with the brim of his fedora. There was just a sliver of his trademark porcelain-white mask visible, along with a penetrating, rich brown eye that gazed morosely out at the assembly. Quite the cover of a penny dreadful mystery. Appropriate.

But the girl, on the other hand! This was why Marcus bit back his laughter.

She did _not _meet his expectations.

He expected a sleek young serpent of a girl, with a languid smirk and narrowed eyes. Weren't all dancers on the make? Flirtatious articles out to cut throats to get ahead? Combine that drive with someone adventurous enough to sneak around with an opera ghost and volunteer herself as a spy, and Marcus expected someone with a dangerous, powerful presence dripping with sensuality.

What he saw instead was quite the opposite.

She was a very petite girl dressed in an outdated muslin gown of faded pink that didn't fit very well, the skirt seeming to swallow her. Taking off her bonnet, she revealed a long thick mane of bouncing reddish-blonde curls, tied – and this Marcus inwardly groaned at – in a rather ridiculously big white ribbon.

Her little gloved hands were folded quietly in front of her, and her large green-gray eyes (there was evidence of Persia at least in her features, Marcus thought with a little satisfaction) were wide and all innocent wonder as she surveyed the room and listened to Darius's introductory words.

She was Little Bo Peep more than Salome. The way her quick head darted this way and that, over her shoulder, above her, at this angle, at that angle, she was far more a hopping lark than a lascivious bird of prey.

She _was _a beauty, Marcus gave her that, with those large almond-shaped eyes, pouty lips, and that softly curious expression. But it was a fair, innocent beauty that did not appeal to him very much: he preferred his ladies dark and wicked-looking. A bit like himself.

There was also a vaguely elfin air about her that Marcus wasn't sure he liked.

His eyes trailed lower to take in her figure. He was a little more satisfied there. Though she was shorter than was his usual taste, she was shapelier than he expected a dancer to be. Speaking of her profession, he almost completely lost his composure when he saw her little feet in their slippers: the girl was actually standing in some sort of ballet position, he was sure of it! That combined with her straight posture gave her a very quizzical air: like a straight-backed flamingo folding its legs out gracefully but ludicrously.

Curious, curious girl!

Meanwhile, Cedric was droning on in that officious way of his. Darius had finished giving them the brief history of their establishment in his sonorous voice, of how Cedric was in reality a representative of the Deuxieme Bureau (to whom their branch reported directly), and that this office was key in scouting out future threats to the French government. Now this very Cedric was introducing the operatic trio to each officer in attendance.

Chauvet's eyes twinkled in an avuncular way as he bowed to Meg (he had three daughters and the eldest was about the Giry girl's age), Heglin briskly shook each hand without removing his pipe from his mouth, and Perrin's was agape in wonder as he nodded at the Phantom. One wouldn't think so looking at his bland countenance, but Perrin was addicted to all tales of the opera ghost and was most eager to meet him.

"…And this is our man on the streets, Monsieur Stephen Marcus." Cedric said, indicating Stephen. With that flashing smile, Stephen bowed exaggeratedly, glancing up particularly at the ladies. He, too, was fascinated by the Phantom, but not even the ghoulish opera ghost could trump the fascination women of all ages held for Stephen Marcus. "A pleasure," Marcus said.

He winked so quickly you could have missed it.

Meg Giry apparently did not. But instead of smirking coolly as the image of her he'd conjured earlier would have, or blushing and looking away as the innocent reality suggested, she only tilted her head, increasing her resemblance to some woodland bird. Their eyes met for the first time. There he did indeed see innocence, and her bee-stung lips were parted in a circular shape.

He was on the verge of somewhat irritably dismissing her as a standard ingénue with wringing hands except he saw a spark there in her big eyes that was…_livelier_ than he expected in an insipid damsel. Alert.

As Cedric droned on, Marcus spied her making eye contact with the Phantom. Stephen could garner no information from that fathomless brown eye of the Phantom's. It was morose and empty, but his sleepy gaze focused on the dancer as she asked him something with that lively gaze of hers.

At last Marcus saw him slowly raise one long tapered finger to his face in a subtle shushing gesture.

And so the girl Meg put on the pretense of listening a bit more. Marcus saw that little foot of hers tap anxiously.

Then as Cedric was about to bring up how the king himself had once deigned to visit the establishment, the little ballet girl could keep it in no longer. "Pardon me," she said. Her voice was much like her image: small, pert, and unprepossessing, but not without a guileless sort of charm. "I do not mean to speak out of turn," here she gave a nervous glance to her censorial-looking mother, "But what exactly do you think this Count of yours has been up to? The papers have been so vague. Something like…robbery?" A bright blush suffused her face, and Stephen believed it was because the thought of such wickedness made the frail girl tremble.

In reality it was a sign of embarrassment: Meg felt sure robbery was too inadequate a word for such a notorious figure.

She sensed her directness did not go over too well in this den of spies, so she blushed some more and blurted out, "Not that I…want to rush anyone. To tell us, that is. Only…only…" she shrugged in confusion. "That is why we are here?" Her voice raised to a squeak on the last word, making it a shrill sort of question.

Far from offending anyone, the girl's earnest eagerness brought a spark of amusement to the dim room with its dark, sparse furnishings. Even her mother's face held fondness as she looked at her flushed daughter.

"Don't worry, _ma chere_," Chauvet said with a kind smile. "Once our good Monsieur Shahzad starts in on the topic of the Count you cannot get him to stop." He raised a chummy eyebrow at the monsieur in question. "Correct, _mon capitan_?"

Shahzad only smiled back and inclined his head.

Marcus did admit the smile of relief on Meg's face – _surely they wouldn't be so pleasant if she truly had talked out of turn_, she was thinking – was quite lovely. He could not recall the last time he'd seen a girl with dimples.

"_Well?"_ Each officer in the room was surprised by the chill that ran up their spine as the Phantom's ghostly tenor voice spoke for the first time_. "Shall we get on with it then?"_ That one brown eye was still all that was visible.

A moment to absorb the shock, then Cedric nodded to Darius, who proceeded to describe the Count in question.

"Robbery, extortion, fraud…the man is not only a menace, but he's a rare character who combines a shallow disposition with a sort of cunning intelligence. I've been after him off and on for nearly ten years. Each time I thought I was on to him, he'd disappear. Rumors would abound a jealous husband finally laid him to rest in a duel, or that a wronged associate took revenge and dumped his corpse in the sea. But then months or years later, he'd reappear – new name, new style, new papers – all airtight – but nonetheless, each time it's him."

He proceeded to explain in detail a few of his more memorable crimes: convincing an aging nobleman he was his long-lost son, thus enjoying the nobleman's vast estate and making off with half his inheritance after his death and just before the authorities intervened; the London bank heist that almost put a duke in jail under false accusations; the time he eloped with a Russian princess and the next morning the girl turned over to find her pearl necklace and diamond rings vanished along with her erstwhile groom.

Every once in a while a contemptuous snicker would escape from the still form of the Phantom, again chilling those assembled. The Giry mother's dark sad eyes only dimmed with each new tale of corruption.

Meg Giry, however, was enraptured. Her lips were pursed and her eyes were so focused on Darius that Marcus got the strange impression that they would burn right through him. She was reminiscent of a previously sweet and simple pampered kitten who sees a mouse or a fly for the first time, and there in the kitten's stance is the wildcat on its first prowl.

Darius finished his tale. "…And then we trailed him here, to Paris. I couldn't be more delighted. For the first time he's where my team is. But his damn papers!" Meg was shocked: this Darius Shahzad was such a serene sort of figure; yet this Count had him swearing! "A master forger! Not to mention he's always been so careful as to not leave behind any sort of incriminating evidence. But he's our man." Darius's eyes blazed. "He's our man."

Meg swallowed and prepared to ask what they could do when her mother spoke for her. "After all, I can't see what possible help we could be."

"_Mother," _Meg hissed, embarrassed again.

And Marcus had to stifle another laugh.

Heglin lit his pipe and perched on the edge of the desk. "We've grilled one of his former girls, someone who was so close to him that he left her behind, trying to hush her up with money. She spoke to us, though." If that were the case, Meg wondered why Heglin glanced mischievously at that Marcus man, who affected a sheepish look but was obviously trying not to laugh again. "Anyway," Heglin went on, crushing his match in a soot-covered little plate. "According to her, he recently obtained a copy of incriminating papers from some high-ranking official in the French government. He's holding them for blackmail. However, he's a smart one, and is biding his time. Were he to reveal them now, he'd only expose his own crimes as well: apparently he himself is mentioned in the pages, his crimes neatly outlined. If we were to recover them from him before he had a chance to think his way around that fact, we could have him, and save our government a little bit of embarrassment at the same time."

"But the official involved," the Phantom's velvet tenor spoke, "He'd face no repercussions, of course?" Hatred and contempt oozed out of his words.

Heglin only shrugged, hands out.

Marcus spoke for the first time. "We are not heroes, monsieur. Madame, mademoiselle. We are employees like everyone else. We work for our superiors; in this case, the government. We are their agents, not righters of wrongs."

Meg looked down at her feet.

Cedric exhaled angrily at Marcus's callous directness but Darius intervened. "Monsieur Marcus has a cynical but not inaccurate outlook. We are officers of the law. Law is not infallible, but it is our mistress."

Meg glanced up to her mother. There was no surprise there, just rueful understanding. "And what," Madame Giry repeated, "Do you envision us doing in this circumstance?"

"Well, speaking of mistresses" – Marcus began flippantly.

Perrin did not let him finish and spoke over him hurriedly. As always, Perrin came to his rescue when Marcus verged on going too far. "Well, you see, Madame, the Count is quite fond of society and the arts. He adores the opera, as your daughter has observed." Nervous little nod to Meg. "So…well…." Now it was Perrin's turn to blush.

Darius cut bluntly to the truth. "And what he likes even more is girls. Beautiful young girls." His gaze rested on Meg.

Her eyes widened as the meaning penetrated. "Oh? Oh!"

For a moment she didn't take in her mother's fiery rebuttal to what was just implied, or the way Erik stiffened behind her. She felt a little faint while at the same time she was violently aware of how fast her heart was beating.

In truth she'd never thought of herself much in a…a…_romantic_ light. She'd always busied herself so much – _too_ much – in the romantic lives of others. She'd lived vicariously through Sorelli narrating her various affairs, through Piangi and Carlotta's turbulent but still loving relationship, and most of all through the happy conclusion to Raoul and Christine's courtship.

But as for herself? When she thought of her future, she supposed she saw herself vaguely as one of those chipper, active spinsters who finds a nice little cottage somewhere – after she'd retire, of course. Not that Meg ever really _wanted _to retire.

But now this! _She_, herself, a tantalizing siren? How ridiculous! But…well…she did tell Darius she'd do whatever was asked….

However, one thing was certain: she would not go to bed with anyone. Not for the police. Not for anyone.

Marcus was intrigued by the queer fire that settled into the Giry girl's eyes. Her already straight posture grew somehow stiffer, prouder. She lightly touched her mother's arm, halting the heretofore stoic lady's venomous words about the arrangement. "Mother, please. I'm not going to…let things get that far. But I've played the flirt a few times already in the opera, so I can keep on doing that, only in real life." She turned to Darius. "Please, monsieur. If I can find out what you need without…without going as far as you imply, certainly that's all right with you?"

"And how," the man Marcus interjected, "Do you plan to accomplish that, mademoiselle?"

She shrugged surprisingly easily. "It's all a matter of finding wherever he's hidden those papers, correct? I am sure there are ways to do that without compromising my virtue, monsieur."

"We'll see," Marcus said under his breath, staring up to the ceiling.

"Let's not get too ahead of ourselves," Cedric said. "First of all, we need to capture the Count's attention. Mademoiselle," he said to Meg. "Like it or not, you _are _going to serve as our bait. And what better way than to star in the next ballet?"

"The next ballet?" Meg frowned. "But who knows when that will be?"

"I believe your mother can tell us that," Darius said, glancing at Madame Giry.

The dance mistress, still bristling, answered reluctantly. "Before we were called down to the lair by Messieurs Shahzad and Berger," she said coldly, looking at the two, "The managers were informing me that we will open the new season with a ballet. We're still unable to put together an opera just yet. We still need to find replacements for Signor Piangi, La Carlotta, and Christine, and besides, the managers don't want to remind audiences too much of what happened the last time an opera played."

"What's the ballet going to be?" Meg asked quickly, her eyes alight with a different curiosity now.

"A new one," Madame Giry said carelessly. "By Pierre Robard."

Those green-gray eyes were wide open now, accompanied by a gasp. "Pierre Robard! But…but I thought he'd retired! To Italy, wasn't it? Or was it Greece?"

"It was Italy," Giry said rather snappishly, as if her darling daughter was a gnat distracting her with its inopportune buzzing. "But he's been back for the past few years. Writing. And now he's ready to produce what he's said is truly his last ballet."

"Well, what's it called? What's it about?"

Marcus did chuckle now at her youthful forgetfulness: it was as if mother and child were alone, instead of in the middle of a station full of spies. How quickly the young girl's enthrallment transferred from one channel to another!

"_La Belle et la Bete_. From the children's story."

Meg's smile of wonder was radiant. _Beauty and the Beast_ was one of her very favorite fairy tales growing up. She remembered sitting mesmerized in her tutu with the other little girls backstage as her mother finally relented after a long rehearsal and read from the story's pages. As her mother narrated in her low voice, suddenly the dark backstage became a misty corridor in a black castle, and beneath lurked the beast….

Erik's smooth voice interrupted her reverie. "It is fortunate you obviously enjoy the tale, mademoiselle, seeing as you'll soon star in it."

Any other time hearing such words would have brightened her mood even more. Instead she felt only a dull thud in her chest.

Her mother articulated why. "Gentlemen, I absolutely refuse to allow Meg's career to advance this way. I've always removed myself from the casting process for roles she's auditioned for. Meg has never received any partiality from me, and she never will from anyone else. She will earn her career on her own merits, nothing more."

"But Madame," Cedric began.

The grim lady only drew herself up and stared disdainfully at those assembled. "This is non-negotiable, along with the sordid role you envision her playing outside the ballet."

Meg fidgeted a bit. For the first time she felt a little self-conscious about her mother speaking for her. Licking her lips slightly and clearing her throat, she said, "I…I have a feeling everything will work out just fine, Mother. I suppose I simply ought to audition better than I ever have before."

"You might be forced to," Darius replied. "For you see, my dear, even if your mother were inclined to cast you, the decision does not rest with her alone. Monsieur Reyer, a few stage managers, and Monsieur Robard himself are involved in the casting process. And they, of course, must not know anything of our arrangement. However, if worse came to worse, Messieurs Andre and Firmin could overrule them. But I'd hate for it to come to that." His eyes twinkled at Meg. "Wouldn't you, mademoiselle?"

Meg returned his conspiratorial glance. She raised her head confidently. There was a shine to her eyes, something true and honest that Marcus was a bit taken aback to see: courage.

The queer surprise that he'd seen in Darius's face before was now in Stephen Marcus's as he gazed at Meg Giry.

The Phantom saw that look, and an odd chill shot straight through his breast.


	35. Chapter 35

Erik's efforts to convince himself that he cared not what occurred in the secret police headquarters, or anywhere at all, or what happened to anyone who was not Christine, were constantly interrupted now by the flurrying white figure of Meg Giry pacing back and forth in his lair like a chicken with her head cut off.

He tried to block out her breathy little voice prattling on incessantly, her small hands twisting this way and that as she spoke aloud her fears from yesterday's encounter with the police.

As Erik stared steadfastly at the keys on his organ from where he sat, Meg poured forth her insecurities, dropping them onto his lap.

"I spoke too soon, don't you think? Far too soon. I shouldn't have just let them assume I would get the part. How do I know for a fact that I _will_ get the part? Oh, and I'd hate to get it on any other merits than my own! I am like Mother in that regard." She slapped her hand to her forehead. "What a mess!"

Erik snorted then, in agreement with the girl. Yes, what a mess the thoughtless dancer had landed them all in. His memory was clouded by the jarring sensations of going so openly into Paris for the first time in…ever, and with the vitalizing and obnoxious air of the police offices. A dark shadow hovered by these images: the figure of Stephen Marcus. He didn't know why; of all the officers, Erik recognized in Marcus the closest thing to a fellow comrade in cynicism and realism. Yet the hungry gleam that had appeared in the ruffian's eyes as he'd looked at Meg tugged at a small corner of Erik's mind like a sharp pain, and the very fact he didn't know why he should be so affected contributed to his sour mood.

Yet the girl did not once mention the officer. Erik's lair was still heavily guarded, but Meg (the determined, nosy thing!) still held onto the map he'd drawn for her mother. Therefore, she was able to find one more tunnel circling the left wing of the opera house that led to his establishment through a series of trapdoors. So far, Darius even in his thoroughness had missed this outlet.

Thus, the girl was able to renew her visits to his abode undetected.

There were many thoughts and feelings Erik was unconsciously keeping at bay. And one of the peskier was the feeling of…_contentment_ and _home_ that came upon seeing Meg enter tentatively through the trapdoor this morning, quietly inquiring if she could be of any service.

However, the moment he'd given his outwardly reluctant assent, she'd quickly hopped up and let the trapdoor fall with a bang, and from then on she'd unleashed her running monologue of anxiety.

Erik only plucked the new set of keys he'd installed on his repaired organ, providing a somber sort of background music for her musings.

"…And Monsieur Robard! The first time I meet him I have to dance for him! For his own ballet! Oh, God. How…how do I know I'm ready for this?"

At last Erik replied to her, though his half-face was bland in expression. "I've never known you to suffer from stage fright, little Giry. Weren't you practically born with toe shoes on?"

"Yes, but this is different! So much is riding on this! How can I be a good spy if I fail my first assignment by not even getting the part? Oh, I've never been this nervous…."

She took to pacing again, which was the last straw for Erik.

"Look, child, why not put your nervous energy to good use by practicing? You tell me auditions aren't for another week. You've always struck me as a fast learner. So practice."

Meg's cheeks burned at his compliment, but a sudden idea came to her that made her forget it. "Monsieur Erik!" She sped over to him, clutching his arm. "Even better! Why don't I rehearse down here, with you?"

Erik must give the little girl credit where credit was due. He could not recall anyone befuddling him, _Erik_, as much as this girl.

"…What?"

She acted as if she had proposed the most sensible thing in the world. She gestured to the new keys. "Your organ is repaired. I've always heard from – well – never mind" – Her attempt not to mention Christine was clumsy and she knew it, so she quickly pressed on: " – I've always heard you were such a magnificent musician! So why not let me dance down here? This way I can have a lot of space to dance and you – you could give me pointers?" This in a shy voice, head tilted inquiringly, hands behind her back.

Erik shivered, memory churning in his chest. "I don't think that is wise, mademoiselle." His voice was so quiet.

She was suddenly kneeling in front of his bench, little hand clutching his wrist. He stiffened at the contact.

"Please, monsieur! What harm could it do?"

He wrenched away his wrist, his cold eyes avoiding the dove-like gleam in hers. "What harm, you ask? Can't you see, girl, that all my inspiration is gone? I am like a moth who glimpsed the moonlight and flew toward it, but then the night swallowed that light whole. Now I've nothing to fly toward. You would be dancing for something dead, my dear."

There was such a funereal passion to his magnetic voice that Meg did feel momentarily humbled. But the itch of ambition within her – they were all counting on her, she couldn't fail, and this was a chance to dance the starring role in a Robard ballet! – conquered her reticence.

"I'm not asking you to…well, bewitch me or anything like that. But you can't tell me that all your knowledge of music and theater has left you! You still know enough to differentiate between good and mediocre. Really, Monsieur Erik, that's all I need! Please!"

He merely closed his eyes and shook his head grimly.

The anxiety and frustration turned into temper within her, and Erik could almost feel her vibrate with anger as she spat out, "You have to! We're a team! If I fail, we all fail! All you have to do is play your stupid organ, monsieur, forget the pointers."

He stared at her narrowed eyes, those plump lips squeezed downward into a frown.

_Fire dances within her._

"I don't even know the score," he drawled carelessly, looking away.

Swiftly now her fingers scrambled inside the little pink knit reticule she'd brought with her. From this she took out a neatly folded bundle of papers.

"Here," she said. She indicated he open it.

Tiredly he did.

"'Belle Dreaming at Her Mop,'" He read aloud. He quirked a wearied inquiring eyebrow at her.

"Yes, it's her first big dance! Her sisters make her clean and be a servant to them, you see, and so she's daydreaming that her mop is a prince and she dances with it before her arrogant suitor comes in and finds her."

Erik scanned the musical notes. They were…_charming_, he must admit. Of course, he'd always admired Robard so far as he admired any contemporary ballet composer. Erik tended to look down his nose at the standard ballet score composed these days.

But this…this certainly had potential.

"Did you sneak this away from your mother, little Giry?"

"I don't sneak _everything_ away," Meg's cheeks went pink at the insinuation. "No, this is available to anyone wishing to practice before the audition."

"Ah."

She was on her knees again, eyes so appealing and hands tight on the bench. "What do you say, monsieur? I'll bet you can play this just fine. Why don't you, and I'll just dance along to it? If you happen to see anything remiss in my dancing feel free to comment, but otherwise, you can just enjoy playing a new piece of music. It's been a while, I'm sure," She cast a glance at the yellowed, dusty sheets on the organ's music rack.

Erik shifted, discomfited. He liked the old, the reliable. He was determined to sit down here with only the memories and artifacts from before…from before Christine left him. He'd rather act as though time stopped here in his lair, his abode isolated in time and space, hovering suspended from the moment she kissed him.

Now this little chit was here, and everything was new, new, _new_. Aggravatingly, nauseatingly…_revitalizingly_ new.

He did not want to be revived. He did not.

Her little hand touched the third line on the sheet. She was very close to him, her tutu brushing his leg. "I think that's when the melody starts to get so very beautiful," she breathed. A few sunny, fire-tinged ringlets fell over the paper as she leaned even closer. "Don't you think?"

Erik dropped the pages unceremoniously onto his music rack. His fingers were poised at the keys. He began.

* * *

At first Erik contented himself merely playing the deceptively simple but rather enchantingly intricate melody. For a while Meg was only a darting, twirling blur at the corner of his vision, easily ignored.

At last, however, Erik happened to raise his head and caught her dance.

He was surprised to note his mouth went dry.

The girl was grace incarnate. He'd seen many dancers. Hundreds and hundreds of dancers. But none _were _dance. Meg was. She was more curvaceous than the average member of the corps de ballet, but when moving she seemed weightless. Her gestures matched the music so perfectly it was as if they were born from the melody.

Yet as she pantomimed the mop and tried to evoke a sense of romance, Erik's brow creased. Something was missing.

And it took him but a few moments to discover it.

"You dance with passion, Miss Giry," he said over the music.

Her eyes were closed, but the wide smile on her face revealed how much his comment meant to her.

"But you have no heart."

Her eyes flew open.

She stopped dancing at once, arms down at her sides, and feet in the first position.

"What?"

He chuckled, shuffling the papers. "You've never been in love, have you?"

She fidgeted awkwardly. "Well, no."

_Of course not. Anahid and I wouldn't let her. No man can be trusted who enters the opera house and seeks out the ballet._

The barest sniff of disdain from the Phantom. "That explains it. You act very well, mademoiselle, but it's obvious you are only acting and not really feeling love here."

Although Meg grew up in the ballet and was used to some degree of criticism, she was also used to usually being exempt from it, Reyer and the managers praising her more often than not (her mother, of course, would always criticize her. She was determined Meg not have an easy escape from the rigors of the profession).

And so she was a little unnerved and a little nonplussed that anyone not her mother would deliver such a blanket condemnation of her...her…emoting. Thus she raised her head almost haughtily and said, "Monsieur, please! I'm supposed to be dancing with a mop. Do you really expect me to be in love with a mop?"

"_Yes." _She jumped at his sudden vehemence, the burning intensity in his eyes. He was leaning over the organ, glaring at her so fixedly she felt his gaze was searing through her soul. "You are a beautiful girl stifled by jealous, ignoramus sisters who give themselves the freedom to flaunt and flirt, while you…_you_, prettier, kinder, smarter than they, _you_ are resorted to wasting your youth cleaning for them, serving them! Your father, you love him, but he is useless, weak! You'd never admit that to yourself, but that is the truth! You're flattered but disappointed by the handsome, callous youth who comes calling. He should fulfill your every desire since he outwardly worships you. Yet there is a hardness to him, a cruelty. You feel anxious and uncomfortable every time this handsome youth comes near you. You don't know what your feelings are! You know only one thing: that all you can depend on in life is your own mind. And the palace within. There you can be confident, sure. There you can fall in love without question, and be loved back. That is not a mop you are dancing with. That is passion, love. That is all you have. _Give yourself to it, body and soul."_

Meg was barely breathing, lost in his eyes.

Erik's outburst took him by surprise, so he did not anticipate the physical change his words would have upon Meg.

For the first time since he'd known her, there was a romantic fire in her eyes. The sort beautiful maidens in poetry and lore who survive countless adversities have in their own eyes. She trembled but did not cower. Her lips were parted just slightly, and realization dawned like sunrise in her Parisian-Persian features.

Like her, Erik was breathless.

He said but one word more: "Dance."

The arm that wrapped around the imaginary mop was slower, grander now. There was melancholy there, but a sure hard strength as well. Her body followed suit as he played again.

Her eyes closed once more, but her face held no smile now. She looked almost in pain as she moved, but it was a spiritual pain. Yet in that pain there grew ecstasy.

And as she twirled faster and faster with her imaginary mop-turned-lover, a fiery playfulness imbued her movements. She loved and was loved in return, so she grew daring, mad with teasing joy.

She was so enthralling Erik did not even feel shame or surprise at the strong stirring in his veins as he watched her. He was not conscious of anything but music and Meg Giry, dancing.

He played the final note.

Meg stopped dancing.

She panted, her breath having returned to her.

She felt mildly ashamed she'd never put so much thought and feeling into a character before. Dimly she realized there was a whole other layer to art she'd never contemplated all these years – avenues of emotional depth you could get lost in, like one drowning in a deep stream.

She looked at Erik, inscrutable as always at the keys. She looked at his slim but muscled form, the pale but strong featured face untouched by the mask. The lips that were too thick – so thick they became almost beautiful.

And his eyes. Erik's eyes. Dark, rich, sensual brown and shocking, maniacal, pleading ice blue.

It was as if someone had grabbed her insides and was running them up and down to her head to her stomach, like running clothes up and down a washing board.

He was music. But not any music: he was the music _beneath _the music, the wild spirit that made it come alive until he soared above it.

_Angel of Music…_

She started when he gave a barking laugh. "That…was more satisfactory, Mademoiselle Giry. Much more satisfactory." He inclined his head in artistic acknowledgement, and Meg was never so warmed, so humbled by a compliment.

He laughed again. "I do believe you were lying to me, however."

"What do you mean?"

"You can't have danced like that without at least knowing somewhat the pangs and longings of love."

For some reason she couldn't name his words brought a flash of panic to her chest. Still, she shrugged honestly. "But I haven't! I haven't experienced anything like that except from what I've seen in other couples and on the stage."

Erik felt a strange kinship with her. That's how he was, before Christine, at least. Unlike Meg, he _did_ know love then.

He couldn't say why, but the sudden thought of Christine made him feel…guilty.

_Because you promised never to take interest in anything other than her after she left, and here you are coaching Meg Giry._

Bitterness and disgust at all he'd lost twisted in his throat. "How about unrequited love?" He muttered darkly, glaring down unseeingly at the pages on the rack. "Never even experienced that?"

"No. I don't believe in it."

His laugh was mocking and almost hysterical now, like the hyena of old. Meg shivered. "You mad girl! Whatever do you mean by that? How can you not believe in unrequited love? When countless people across the globe suffer from it every day?"

She was mostly back to her old self again, forthright and practical. As she picked up her reticule and slung it over her shoulder, lifting her hair out from under the strap, she forgot Erik's pain and thoughtlessly said, "I suppose that's just infatuation they feel."

"Infatuation?" He spat out, incensed. How dare she presume so much when she's never experienced the despair, the heartache of it? "How do you know?"

Meg tilted her head, contemplative. "I guess I just don't see how there can be true love if both parties don't feel the same. How can there?"

At this query Erik's heart went empty and cold.

He didn't answer her, just glowered at the keys as he started playing another dirge.

His temples pounded with every note.

* * *

**A/N: I know some of you might think my description of Belle's situation sounds more like Cinderella's. However, please know I'm inspired not so much by the Disney movie as I am by the 1940s French movie La Belle et La Bete, which is closer in storyline to the version of the story popularized in the 1700s. In fact, I picture the music for this ballet as similar to the soundtrack in the '40s movie (esp. the music about 2 minutes into this video here: watch?v=yhq8pTDQVXY).  
**


	36. Chapter 36

Meg almost forgot her nerves as she neared the stage for the fateful audition. A wave of glad euphoria hit her at the familiar clatter of practicing feet and excited voices. It had been too long since last she'd heard the stage so full of anxious voices, of shouting stagehands.

She was surprised when tears stung her eyes as she walked through an actual throng of people across the stage once more. The opera house had come back to life.

To be sure, the stage wasn't quite full yet. Meg was raised that showing up on time to an audition was the same as arriving late; therefore, she'd arrived twenty-five minutes early to check in with Monsieur Reyer's stagehand. Only a handful of new girls eager to make a good impression in the ballet corps auditions preceded her.

As she spoke with the stage manager, she darted what she hoped was a subtle look around the seats.

Reyer was just arriving along with yet another assistant, but no sign of Pierre Robard.

At least, there was no sign of an older, distinguished-looking gentleman, which Meg assumed was what Monsieur Robard looked like. There was an old portrait of him hanging in the opera foyer, but it was from when he was a young man, and who knew if the artist had truly done him justice.

Madame Giry was absent. She would see to the other leading and supporting roles, and pass final judgement on the chorus, but she refused to involve herself any way in the casting of Belle. She was more adamant about avoiding nepotism than the strongest critic could have been.

Meg felt a little relieved when she remembered La Sorelli was no longer in competition with her, which was why there was an audition for the role of Belle to begin with. After _Don Juan_, the prima ballerina proclaimed she'd had enough of these theatrics and retreated to her native Italy – just in time for Robard to come out of retirement after spending years in La Sorelli's homeland.

Meg's heart pounded with the realization that she who got the role of Belle increased her chances of stepping in as the next prima ballerina.

Meg scolded herself a little for the excitement she felt at Sorelli's absence; after all, she'd always considered Sorelli a friend despite the older dancer's growing resentment of her. For when it came right down to it, Sorelli was no Carlotta: the flighty dancer had not the resolve to continually make Meg's life hell as Carlotta tried with Christine.

As Meg turned back to the stage, a familiar "Why, hello there!" stopped her.

Meg smiled widely in pleasant surprise. "Justine!" The young coloratura soprano Justine Laurent was seated at the aisle seat front row, dressed in forest green velvet trimmed with ermine. Meg happily shook her hand. "I didn't know you'd come back from your tour!"

"Well, I have! And here I am!" Justine's parents divorced while she was still a child; her mother had run off with an American businessman and her father took up with a mistress in Spain. Therefore from childhood up she'd rarely seen her parents and had instead been raised primarily by her father's vastly wealthy older brother, who adored her. So protective of her was he that after the chandelier fall almost a year ago, he promptly took Justine on a tour of England, Germany, and Switzerland until this "nasty Phantom business" worked itself out.

Meg liked Justine very much, though she hadn't the chance to socialize with her too much given Justine's rather high rank in the chorus and Meg's rather high rank in the ballet. But Justine had an eminently sane air about her that was a balm right now on Meg's fretful spirit.

Justine craned her neck around, observing the hubbub around her. "Hope you ladies don't mind me barging in on your audition. I figured I'd head over early before talking to Reyer and the managers."

"What about?"

"Why, the next opera, of course."

This caught Meg's attention. "The next opera?"

Justine lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Yes. They confided in my uncle. Apparently if this ballet is successful enough, they'll lift their unofficial ban on operas and put on _The Marquis de Lafeyette." _The tribute to one of France's greatest heroes had not been performed since its debut the year following Lafeyette's death in 1834. Justine's eyes twinkled shyly. "They're interested in me auditioning for the role of Adrienne." Adrienne, Lafeyette's wife, was the principal female role.

As Meg congratulated her, she thought it no wonder Justine seemed uncharacteristically shy. Meg knew Justine never thought she'd reach the ranks of a Carlotta or Christine role despite her great talent.

Justine Laurent did not possess a typically beautiful face, but Meg couldn't help finding it more attractive to study than some classically lovely faces she had seen. The singer's mouth was too small but her lips were soft and delicate, and her wicked, sweet little smile was charming. Her eyes were also rather small, but exquisitely shaped, tilted up at the ends, and they gave her face a feline symmetry. Her eyes were a dark charcoal gray color, framed by heavy black hair and cropped bangs.

This face was complemented by an equally contradictory personality: tempestuous and bright balanced with sweetness and wistful romanticism. She was headstrong and reserved, witty and modest, cynical and innocent. She could be the gentlest soul in the world and then the next moment display the most willful resolve that would turn her from a lamb into a tigress in the blink of an eye.

It was the sort of personality that Madame Giry once told Meg could drive men out of their minds.

Yet at age twenty-five Justine had as yet to garner a serious suitor. The ballet and chorus girls all concurred as to the reason why, showing every evidence of smug sympathy whenever the topic came up: Justine was quite fat.

She was not just plump or chubby; she was large, solid: simply put, fat.

There was no getting away from the truth, the girls would say quietly amongst themselves, a look of almost censorial pity on their faces: Justine was just plain _fat._

She dressed herself well, they conceded. That dark hair was always washed and shining, and she took good care of her skin. But why wouldn't she _do_ something about that weight? If she could just shrink her waistline, they dared say she would be almost pretty if never beautiful. She did have those flashing eyes and that flirtatious grin. So why not just shed those surplus pounds?

They didn't know about the diets. They didn't know that her beloved uncle had once almost dragged her to a hospital when she practically stopped eating for several days her fourteenth year. They couldn't know because Justine Laurent's most dominant personality trait was her pride, which she'd built as a wall between her big body and the sneers and simpering from outside. She'd learned to erect that wall as a teenager, back when the other teenagers in the chorus and the ballet did not limit gossiping about her to just behind her back. The bullying had been intense, so the wall Justine built was sturdy.

There were a few times she peeked out from behind that wall and made reference to her girth, crouched in self-deprecating humor. Each time the ladies she spoke to would coo, "No, you're not fat! You're a lovely thing!" Or "You're just…curvaceous, that's all!" (This said even though relative to the rest of her, Justine's bosom was rather small). They would then pat her hand as if she were a child that must be comforted. If they would not deny her fat, they would instead quickly change the subject with a hasty, "Nonsense! You look just fine. Did you see La Carlotta's latest gown? They say it came all the way from Milan…." And these, the same girls who'd oinked like a pig at her when they were thirteen years old!

The only person who surprised her was Meg. They had been gossiping backstage about some romance or another (as Justine recalled, it was between a stagehand and a soubrette from a rich family) when Justine cursed herself for accidentally letting slip, "But I'm certainly no expert when it comes to love. Who'd take a cow like me? I'm far too fat." To cover this moment of bitter vulnerability she laughed weakly, and waited for the syrupy words of denial she was sure would come out of Meg's mouth.

Instead the dancer shrugged and said, "So? Signor Piangi is too, and he's never had a problem attracting women, so I've heard."

Justine's contradictory personality manifested in her reaction to Meg's statement: she felt relieved and emboldened that Meg didn't condescend and lie to her – yet she cursed herself again for feeling hurt that Meg _didn't_ bother lying. This meant that Justine had to face an ugly truth: that as much as she hated the false reassurances from others, a very small part of her secretly pretended they were true.

All she could say in reply to Meg was a mumbled, "It's different for men."

"I don't see why it should be," Meg answered. "After all, your face has far more character than his."

For all that Justine refuted this and silently agreed with the other girls who said no man would take her the way she was, Meg's assessment was in this instance closer to the truth. There had been men who'd shown interest in Justine: Leopold the opera's barber, a shy cousin named Royce, and an older widower friend of her uncle's who almost proposed before her dark glare stopped him dead.

For Justine did not love any of these men, and their courtship never lasted long or were of any great depth. She felt in her heart of hearts that while they might genuinely feel some affection for her, it was not with the devoted passion she dreamed of. Justine wanted to fall passionately, madly in love with someone, and wanted someone to love her passionately and madly back. If she couldn't have this, she would settle for nothing less.

She resigned herself to spinsterhood, and threw herself instead into singing, traveling, and tending to her beloved uncle and friends.

Yet those fiery dreams of romance still danced in her fascinating eyes and smile.

Justine and Meg chatted in the present about Justine's tour and the museums and sights she'd visited. Meg was losing herself in the singer's descriptions of the Swiss Alps when Justine saw someone enter the theater. "Oh, look there! Is that not the mysterious Monsieur Robard?"

Meg spun around, excitement caught in her throat. Then an endearingly silly smile graced her face as she saw him, one of her composer heroes.

It is rare when someone so perfectly captures our mental picture of them that it is often more surprising than when they look the exact opposite. This surprise is what Meg felt now: Pierre Robard looked so completely like she imagined him she was taken aback.

He was handsome for his advanced age, and he walked straight without stooping. His white hair and the wrinkles at his eyes were the chief evidences of age, that and a wise, melancholy look about him. He wore a thick scarf and a brown coat, making him look every inch the artist.

Meg was ecstatic to note there was kindness in the lines of his mouth and its thin, vague smile.

With him was a tall, familiar, handsome figure with bushy black hair and dark eyes: Carolus Fonta, male principal dancer. With Sorelli gone, he was the only 'Old Guard' ballet dancer left to take a part without audition: the lead dual role of the Beast and the Prince.

Robard pat him on the back as they sat down. It appears they knew each other, probably from when Robard had gone to Italy some years ago in retirement.

Once Reyer saw him he shot up dutifully and spoke quickly and quietly with the composer. With an amused, careless expression, Robard nodded and shook his hand at the director, as if to say, "Whenever you want, however you want it, it makes no difference to me, my friend."

Reyer bowed stiffly and then turned to the stage, clapping his hands.

"Ladies, ladies! Thank you. Auditions for the ballet chorus first, if you please."

As Meg nodded goodbye to Justine with the singer's "good luck" whispered behind her, Meg hurried backstage in wait for the chorus to finish auditioning.

She stood just barely in the wings, leaning out a little. Her keen eyes watched not those auditioning in the chorus, but strained instead to make out the reactions of the white-haired gentleman in the audience. What was Monsieur Robard thinking? What sort of reaction should she expect when it was her turn?

From what she could see of him, his face revealed nothing. Someone just glancing at him would have thought him bored, but his expression was instead dreamy, far away. His eyes were locked on the stage, but their expression was one of tranquility and mild amusement instead of professional discernment. The disinterested smile never left his face.

He was too opaque for Meg to read. Slightly frustrated, Meg did something she never had before an audition: she removed herself mentally from the moment, the place. Before, she'd always been tightly observant and alert during auditions, calculating the space in front of her, running through the steps in her mind, looking to see who was there and figuring out their role and place.

But a foreign calm fell over her now.

She was down below, with Erik.

Since her revelation when she danced for him that first time in his lair, she'd returned three times more. Each time he'd point out one other key ingredient her dance was missing: melancholy one time, yearning the next, and discontent at last.

And each time she'd add those ingredients to the recipe, until at last she danced not as Meg Giry but as Belle.

All under his dark, mismatched gaze, that sent a wave of heat straight to her very core.

She shivered now as she recalled those eyes, the blue one shadowy behind the mask.

Her almost enchanted state of serenity stayed with her as the chorus finished and they moved on to Belle. It stayed with her as she watched the first two girls audition for the role, so that she didn't really see them. She didn't see Sonya's soft but too elusive turn, or Monique's fine acting but rather stiff movements.

The calm followed her as she almost sleep-walked to the center of the stage and began her own audition.

As she raised herself up _en pointe_ and stretched her arms out to embrace her imaginary mop, she could almost see the arm of the imaginary lover –

And she could almost see the sliver of porcelain white covering half his face….

Her dance was as magical as in the lair.

But –

And this Pierre Robard noticed at once as he sat in the audience –

The dreamlike quality was almost too ethereal, too…possessed?

As if strings were attached to her, and if he looked up to the rafters he'd see the devil working them.

That, or an angel.

Yet just as the slight skepticism of the thought crossed his face, he locked eyes with the young girl.

And Meg the scrappy, observant opportunist – not the faraway artist giving herself over to dance and Erik's influence - was finally able to read him.

Pierre Robard saw those pretty eyebrows just slightly come down in a look he felt secretly thrilled to recognize.

Determination. Young Meg Giry had seen his challenge and accepted it.

Suddenly it was not only Belle dancing, the character coached and shaped by the Phantom.

It was Belle _and_ Meg Giry – coached and shaped by her alone.

The dance became less ethereal and more immediate, grounded.

Meg made a decision right then: Belle was not entirely a dreamer, even in her life of servitude.

Deep within her was a woman of action, dying for the chance to prove herself.

Her fire was contagious. Though she danced better than she ever had, there was something in this interpretation still undeniably _hers_, still undeniably Meg Giry.

Pierre Robard had never met Meg before or seen her dance, but by the time she finished, he felt he knew her.

And he found he liked her. More than liked her: he understood and appreciated her vivacious ambition, recognizing what he felt when he was a young, poor student knocking on stage door after stage door trying doggedly to sell his music.

Meg stood still on the stage, letting the buzz in the air that follows a charged performance wash through her. She panted, catching her breath. Then she curtseyed politely, as she'd always been taught.

She stole another quick glance at Monsieur Robard. There was a light in his eyes that wasn't there before, she was sure. And so she barely heard Monsieur Reyer thanking her for the audition, the director professionally keeping his own enthusiasm at bay.

As Justine and the other chorus girls congratulated her afterward, assuring her she would absolutely get the part, she thought she saw the curtain in Box Five flicker just slightly, as if a hand had been there before its owner disappeared from view.

Her preoccupation with this and Monsieur Robard kept her from seeing another figure, leaning unseen against one of the pillars below Box Five. Someone dressed as a stagehand and wearing a false mustache that hid his smirk.

Although he was no connoisseur of the arts, Stephen Marcus felt confident he could ease his superiors' lingering doubts about Mlle. Giry securing herself the leading lady's role.

* * *

**A/N: Is my inclusion of an opera about Lafeyette a sneaking reference to my growing obsession with _Hamilton_? Maaaaaaybe.**


	37. Chapter 37

Later that week, Erik sat facing Madame Giry in the ballet mistress's flat. They sat stone-faced across from each other at the kitchen table, the light low, their voices muted and expressionless.

Both were reminded dolefully of underground meetings in Persia when they would discuss the latest orders from the shah.

Only now the orders came from Paris's secret police.

Madame Giry arched a brow, the only sign of life in her still face. "Well?"

"I followed him home," Erik drawled in a careless tone of voice. "Very luxurious apartments." He plucked a grape from a bowl on the table and pretended to study it. "You were correct: he is a fussily image-obsessed little man."

Madame Giry added a humorless smirk to her arched brow as one of the few expressions she allowed herself now.

Yes, the Count was image-obsessed. That much she'd garnered from Natalie, the chorus dancer Giry cornered. Using the pretense of her usual rigid discipline, Giry interrogated Natalie about this Count. The dance mistress was well aware that the Count had paid the young dancer a minor interest.

Frightened into obedience, Natalie spilled all the details she knew about this Count: she of course didn't like him, he was so oily in manner and smelled too thick of cologne, his clothes almost laughably fashionable and flashy. No, no, Madame, Natalie had never gone home with him! He once invited her out to drinks at Le Chat Noir, where he usually met his dates or so she heard, but Natalie was an honest girl! She turned him down, she swore!

Giry gave the name of Le Chat Noir to Erik. Erik, adopting a false nose and whiskers (his hat hiding the rest of his disfigurements) waited hidden by a streetlight outside the establishment for three nights until a man who met the Count's description appeared. The gleaming, pale blue glass eye confirmed the man's identity.

Quiet and slippery as an eel, Erik followed him home by climbing in back of his carriage, his cloak wrapped tightly around him, making him one with the carriage and undetectable as the party sped by drunk city-dwellers. He crept to the windows outside the Count's town house after they arrived, and witnessed the Count's various fastidious nighttime activities: dusting everything he touched, winding his ornate gold pocket watch and studying it obsessively, curtly dispensing directions to his servants, and then disappearing upstairs to his bedchambers.

Erik couldn't watch for long or even attempt entering the house. He quickly noted that many of these alleged servants were instead hired guards, and that their surveillance of the estate took precedence over their other duties. He slipped away just before a tall, gaunt man with a face like a beaten in whiskey jug stepped out of the house to inspect the yard.

It appeared the only way to get into the Count's house was by invitation from this very Count.

Erik deemed him an unimpressive, wiry figure, but one with a crafty air that warned against underestimating him.

As Erik described him, half of Madame Giry's attention was devoted to taking in this information, and half devoted to thinking of ways to keep him as far away from Meg as possible. Little did she know Erik was thinking the same thing.

She also took this time to study Erik. She had served him all these years in the opera house at a distance; their meetings usually taking place in Box Five with him as nothing more than an invisible voice hovering somewhere above her. Otherwise, they communicated strictly through letter.

And so time sped by without them dealing face to face. So how had the years changed him?

He was grimmer now, less fantastical and melodramatic. His half-face was even paler, though the bone structure was stronger, more pronounced. He still put on the same lazy disinterest that he wore as another mask in Persia when he was a boy, to cover his overabundance of energy and ambition. Only now she sensed this mask of indifference covered his recent heartbreak and loss…and something else underlying that misery.

Something like…fear? Confusion? There was a watchful, hauntingly surprised look about his eyes and the twitch in his uncovered cheek. He was like a mourner in a darkened funeral parlor who stared at a black coffin so long that when a stray butterfly, bright and quick, fluttered into his line of sight from seemingly nowhere, he had no idea how to react to the contrast, how to adjust.

Madame Giry never before saw this particular confusion in Erik before, and knew not how to approach him with it.

Meg suddenly burst into the room. She was full of sunlight and life, radiant with too much animation for the pair huddling in the dark dreariness of the flat. As always, Meg's energy and vivacity hummed almost too loud for Erik to take in, and he started when she came forward with that brilliant smile on her face.

Meg flung her arms around her mother's neck, her face full of ecstatic satisfaction as she squeezed Madame Giry. "I did it! I got the part!" She released her mother and twirled around, clapping. "The cast list was just posted! I can't believe it, I can't! Well, I can. But still! I'm dancing in a Robard ballet! And I got it on my own!" She raised her chin proudly, her eyes sparkling.

So swept up was she that she failed to notice the wary looks on the two before her. The girl usually so sensitive to any change in the demeanor of those around her was too excited today to let anything else in.

Something indefinable leapt in Erik's chest as she suddenly darted a hand out to him. The green in her eyes was bright and those pupils focused happily on the former opera ghost. "Monsieur Erik! I must thank you and insist on your continued help! Come! I've received the whole score! We should practice!" Her dimples and her freckles were emphasized by the candlelight, as was the gleam in her laughing eyes. "Come!" She repeated. She grabbed his wrist, and barely controlled fury and fear coursed through his veins at the burning contact.

He was saved from dispensing an unnecessarily sharp rebuke by Madame Giry's dark voice. "You have done well, my Meg, but Erik and I are busy right now." Madame Giry gazed thoughtfully at the little hand clutching Erik's.

"Oh, Mother, certainly that can wait a half hour or so! I'm just so excited right now, I must get started at once. Please?" This small word was full of sincere appeal, reflected in her soft eyes and warm smile.

She made such a lovely picture. A deep breath on both their parts, then Madame Giry and Erik nodded once simultaneously. With one inscrutable glance at Giry behind him, Erik followed out the eager girl.

Giry was left alone in the flat. She massaged her temples, where a dull ache had formed. She strove to be as optimistic as her daughter. After all, Meg got the role all on her own, so maybe the young girl could be as in control of the whole operation as she imagined.

Yet Madame Giry had had too many experiences to the contrary for the thought to fully comfort her.

She laughed ruefully to herself. Once again she reflected that before she'd taken commands from the shah of Persia, and now a ragtag group of Parisian policemen. The setting changed, but the motives and dictates of her life did not.

True, she now had two masters to attend to instead of one shah: the police and the ballet. Any authority Andre and Firmin ever held over her diminished even more drastically with the recent revelation in the lair. The two dealt with her with barely suppressed fury and impotence at their own helpless position. Bound to secrecy by the government, they deeply resented this dance mistress getting away with pulling one over on them. But the resentment would often give way to mystified trepidation when they remembered her origin: that of a Persian spy.

They felt vaguely that this should put them in the superior position, since not only was she a dance mistress, but one from the Orient! But any thoughts of acting on their ingrained bigotry died out at the eternally steady composure in her expression and stance, and their realization her past as a spy probably lent her…_certain advantages_ if they should dare talk down to her. They comforted themselves remembering that, after all, they'd shown every respect to the late Piangi, who had black blood on his Moroccan mother's side. So why not extend the same respect to Madame Giry, even if she was not a performer that needed mollifying?

Still, they bristled under their new restraints, and Giry sensed any camaraderie she might have once tentatively shared with the two men was now mostly gone.

And thus, her past continued to haunt her. The endless appetite of the elite government, their fixation on security, meant people with Anahid's skills were doomed to serving them.

She remembered Julien's words the night they fled with Erik, concerning the treatment of the disfigured boy in the Persian palace: _"Don't think that's unique to the Persian court. I can easily see my fellow noble Frenchmen indulging in such exploitive behavior as well…"_

How right his words proved. The secret police worked for the French court after all, doing their bidding just as the Persian secret police did Naser's.

Nobility, aristocracy, that was where the true corruption dwelt.

Madame Giry thought to herself that exploitation and perversion were not innate traits in any particular culture. They were symptomatic instead of the elite. As she grew older and more introspective, Anahid found herself agreeing more and more with her departed husband: the nobility was a corrosive, corrupting illness that festers in any culture that houses it.

* * *

Erik, too, was introspective as he played for Meg in his lair. He tried to focus only on the sheets of music in front of him, which truly was first-rate. Yet the harder he stared at the music, the more he felt her movements in front of his pipe organ, and invariably his eyes would swim to the dancing girl.

She listened intently to his comments and incorporated his critiques into her dance, but he noticed she also put more of herself into her gestures and expressions, adding a fiery and independent flair to Belle that he hadn't envisioned before.

Such a combination in his mind was unconventional for the role of a sad damsel, but…not unlikable.

It had been boredom that led him to Box Five the day of her audition. Simple boredom from months now of staying practically imprisoned in his lair.

This is what he had repeated like a mantra to himself as he watched her from the box, watched her enchant them all.

His eyes were locked on her now. Sometimes she would turn in a certain way, or fling her head back just so, red-blonde curls cascading down, that violent shudders would flood Erik's body.

_What was happening to him?_

Other times her sudden childlike smiles at his mildly encouraging words would remind him so strikingly of the little Meg of years before that the juxtaposition startled him. He'd see nothing but that moppet in toe shoes eagerly taking in her mother's words during lessons with the other children – starry-eyed, a little mischievous, adorable.

Little Meg entered the opera house at almost the same time Erik took control of the theater as Phantom. Thus, he had gotten to know his opera house at almost the same time she had, seen it through her eyes as well as his own. His promise to her mother bound him to her, yet he was well aware now that he had paid very little attention to the girl herself. She was just another bouncing, cute petite rat who shrieked louder and danced better than her compatriots, but he otherwise thought her not that different from the rest of them.

Yet when Meg felt awe at a new set design, he felt it too. When she gawked at the costumes with their close detail to time period, the young Phantom had gawked as well. They learned the theater together, never truly noticing the other.

Just as Carlotta had always been the talentless diva, Piangi the fat clown, Reyer the histrionic dictator, and Madame Giry his sometime confidant, Meg was just…Little Meg to him. She had her place same as everyone else. She had her role, her position to fill in his opera.

He was dimly aware of her growing sweetness, her budding role as leader in the ballet, both as dancer and guardian of the girls. Yet when he noted those traits of kindness and talent within her, he merely labeled them as evidence she was nothing more than an extension of her mother. Thus he saw those qualities as more of a credit to Anahid than Meg herself.

But now that he was so near her, and he could see up close how that adorable cherubic face now also held the alluring touches of womanhood, he was lost as to how to properly define her. When he recalled more clearly her behavior with Christine, and even with him, it slowly dawned on him that there was a deep, warm compassion within her that was…_different _somehow from Anahid's. Individual.

Meg was herself, not an extension of her mother or just another pretty face in the corps de ballet.

And as her happy eyes settled on his, and she smiled again, he realized she was willing to share who she was with him. As if they were…friends.

Cold sweat pricked the back of his hands as he played. His heart pounded and he felt more afraid than he had in years.

_Little Meg _was making him feel this way?

_Christine! _He inwardly pleaded. He prayed to her, his soul's guardian angel, who still stood at the forefront of his waking dreams. He prayed to her image, safely locked away in his heart, prayed to her for strength._  
_

_Christine._

And yet Meg danced on, apparently oblivious to the storm just brewing inside Monsieur Erik. A storm that was now merely a few dark clouds, and had as yet to fully rage.


	38. Chapter 38

Meg did her best to bite back giggles, but this was a very trying situation for one attempting to look dignified in front of her new employers.

After all, how often do trained professional spies seriously examine the wardrobe of a young ballerina?

Yet here were Officers Marcus and Perrin rifling through her dresses that she'd brought into the kitchen from the bedroom, studying them as though they were coded messages from the front.

She was very glad they timed their visit for when her mother was preoccupied with the managers. Madame Giry would _not_ approve of their current activities.

They arrived shortly after Firmin and Andre's announcement at their behest: that a large party was to be thrown in honor of Pierre Robard's return to the theater, taking place in the opera's foyer Friday evening.

The party would also introduce the ballet's new leading lady, Mademoiselle Meg Giry, though her face was already known to most opera goers.

This party was an open invitation to Paris's elite – including the Count, who had so generously supported the opera by buying Box Five for most recent performances.

Once Meg saw Marcus and Perrin at the door after the announcement, she knew for a certainty that she and she alone was the reason for this party:

Her official presentation to the Count.

And thus, the scrutiny of her wardrobe.

Meg felt her amusement give way to impatience as the minutes ticked by and still the officers poured over her skirts. Apparently Stephen Marcus's various adventures with ladies had made him somewhat of a casual connoisseur of female fashion, and David Perrin…well, he was often pressed into selecting dresses for his busy married sisters.

Meg sighed and tapped her foot, straining to look polite and interested.

She had too much else on her mind. Rehearsals started Monday, she had as yet to officially meet Robard, and Erik, when could she make time to rehearse with Erik again…? To be sure, her practices with him were surely unlike those he had with Christine. Unlike singing, Erik's knowledge of ballet was lacking compared to Meg's, and so he was not so much a tutor to her as a fresh pair of eyes for her acting.

They would clearly never share the master/pupil dynamic he and Christine had, and that was fine with Meg. She shuddered at the thought of becoming just another young girl for him to mold. Christine forced herself to break free from that role, and Meg was just relieved she'd apparently never have to.

Yet deep down she knew no one would be able to play Robard's score like Erik did, or stare at her with such honest appraising intensity. That she would miss come Monday's rehearsals.

But she could overcome that.

She was shaken from her musings by Marcus's sharp derisive laugh.

He held up Meg's favorite dress: a pink cotton gown with lace trimming, and just the most beautiful cream-colored silk ribbon bow in back –

"Mademoiselle, is this childish monstrosity the most elegant piece of apparel you own?" He looked at it as though he were holding a drowned rat by its tail.

Perrin coughed and looked away as Marcus laughed again.

Meg was not a vain girl, but his behavior was just too much! Her cheeks burned pinker than the dress as she answered, "What do you mean, 'childish monstrosity'? It's beautiful!" She spread out the skirt, gazing lovingly at the minute pattern of red tea roses embroidered on the material.

Another snort from Marcus as he plopped the dress down unceremoniously on the kitchen table. He gestured to it and then to the heap of discarded dresses next to it. "This, a light blue cotton gown that puritans in America would probably deem too prudish, a white muslin thing that looks dated a good ten or fifteen years, a yellow dress that a child's doll would wear, a black funeral dress, a few more pink disasters, and then a cloud of ballet tutus. You really do not own any other dresses?"

Meg refused to be cowed by his tone. "What of it?" She straightened her posture, nose slightly up. "I am a dancer, you know, not a society dame."

"And yet," Marcus said, leaning on the table, arms crossed, "That is exactly the image you need to project Friday night."

Perrin lent his quiet and uncomfortable voice in assent. "I am afraid he is correct, mademoiselle. Granted, I know how awkward this whole situation is for you…."

Meg appreciated Perrin's efforts, but her temper was up now and she couldn't help feeling that as much as Marcus was mocking her, Perrin was condescending to her.

Clearing her throat, she said affecting haughtiness, "Thank you, messieurs, but that will do. I see I shall have to get a new dress."

"Don't worry, the department will foot the bill," Marcus said casually, seemingly ignoring her frosty manners. "But _we'll _make the selection, mademoiselle." He turned to Perrin, speaking now solely to him. "I think something dark, form-fitting. Low neckline. Sequins? Probably sequins."

"Good heavens!" Meg broke in, offended he should talk over her so. "Men, look at me. Frankly, now. Does it really look like I'd be convincing in a risqué dark evening gown? Playing the elegant flirt? Hm?"

The men looked at her youthful, energetic face, her small sprightly form.

They did see her point. "Then what do you suggest, mademoiselle?" Marcus challenged her.

"Well" –

"Nothing pink."

"…Oh. Well…how about something white, then? I do think I look better in white. Something sort of…swan-like. Delicate!"

The men considered. "That does sound nice," Perrin said encouragingly.

"The only problem I can see is that 'swan-like' and 'delicate' don't exactly inspire pangs of desire, mademoiselle."

He expected her to blush at his words, but once again, this little ballet girl surprised him by taking his words and thinking them over. "Mmmmm…I wouldn't be so sure, monsieur. I've lived here all my life, you know. I've watched men pursue chorus singers, dancers. They enjoy the girls who blatantly seduce them, but I've never seen a man go so crazy as when a girl acts too virtuous for him and gives him the 'cold shoulder'. They seem to see that as…as…a sort of challenge." Her nose wrinkled with distaste.

Still, she had impressed them.

"Say, Stephen! That's not bad!"

Marcus nodded. "Yes. The innocent act. That will make her stand out." He frowned. "But there is a line, mademoiselle, between alluring innocence and cold puritanism. Are you sure you could pull it off?"

Meg stared at him for a moment. Then she cast her eyes demurely to the floor. Her hips swayed just slightly, as if she were doing so unconsciously, and she sighed softly. "I…I don't know, monsieur," she said, her voice quiet, breathy, but somehow rich with feeling.

A lovely blush suddenly suffused her skin. She moved like water toward Marcus. She tentatively yet gracefully took his hand. Her plump lower lip trembled as her large green-gray eyes, sparkling with what looked almost like tears, swam sweetly and shyly up to his. Her lids were halfway closed, giving her a sleepy, soft look.

"What do you think?" She breathed ever so gently. She looked as if her very life depended on his words, yet she was too afraid to let him see just how much his words meant. She was so helpless, so delicate, so lovely. So heart-tuggingly reticent.

Marcus trembled, for the first time in his life stunned to silence.

Then she dropped his hand and giggled, the lively elf-girl again. She seemed somewhat embarrassed yet pleased by her performance. "I think I'll do just fine!" Her nose was up again. "I am an actress after all."

Perrin, enjoying the rare sight of his friend's discomposure, joined Meg in her laughter. "Yes, I believe she'll do just fine, Stephen!"

Marcus felt dazed and…strangely like he'd lost something when she let go of his hand.

What…talent!

In the mirthful surprise over her little performance, none of the three gave much thought that she would have to perform that way again for the Count. None of them wondered how a man like him would react to such a beguiling display of vulnerability.

The figure watching behind the Giry mirror did, however. And his fury at their apparent disregard was matched only by the violent ache in his temples recollecting Meg taking Stephen Marcus's hand.

* * *

Despite Marcus's efforts, in the end both Meg and Mother Giry were present when the final gown was selected at Dame de Grace, one of the more exclusive boutiques in Paris.

After an hour rifling through various outfits – Madame Giry nixing one for showing too much skin, Marcus nixing another for showing not enough – Meg sped away from them with a loud gasp to a dress mannequin in back.

She ran her hand over the skirt, and her mother and the two officers could tell by the way her eyes gleamed and the grave expression she wore that there would be no arguing. This was the dress.

Luckily, her choice happened to satisfy everyone's preferences: it was white and delicate like Meg wanted, with gold chiffon covering much of her neckline like Madame Giry wanted, yet displayed her arms, neck, and shoulders like Marcus wanted, plus it did have an elegant silhouette. Sequins were also scattered across the bodice and skirt per Marcus's earlier recommendation, and while they were not embroidered into swans to reflect Meg's imaginings, they instead took the shape of intricately beaded golden butterflies.

Meanwhile, Perrin was just happy everyone was satisfied and that the tension was now largely dissipated. Madame Giry finally agreed to bow out of attending the party, thus signalling to Meg an increase in her trust.

Friday came, and Meg happily distracted herself fitting into the dress, putting her hair up with a few matching gold butterfly pins, and admiring herself in the mirror. This kept her away from thoughts of the Count until she stood at the top of the foyer stairs.

Then, as she saw the crowd and they saw her and applauded, the thundering in her heart reminded her:

_Oh._

She must allure the Count.

_Oh._

Her first instinct was to stamp her foot like a child and cry, no, she wasn't about to spoil this perfectly lovely evening by entangling with that…that…_snake._

But like cold hard steel, duty returned to her, and she raised her head and smiled. Andre took her hand in its long silk evening glove and announced to those assembled, "Our Belle in truth, Mademoiselle Meg Giry!"

She gracefully acknowledged each smiling face with a wide grin of her own. The girl in her would have blushed and giggled triumphantly knowing so many fine members of the elite were acknowledging her almost like royalty, were it not for the fact that a wary voice inside warned her: any of these faces could be the Count's. Remember that.

As she accepted a flute of champagne, she looked around the foyer. The space was quite crowded, though with a far more dignified and orderly hum than during masquerade. Yet there was no sign of the Count.

A small part of her started hoping he hadn't accepted the invitation, when a waiter that was offering her an hors d'oeuvre leaned in to whisper: "To your left. In the far corner." Surprised, Meg saw above the waiter's mustache the winking eyes of Stephen Marcus. "To your left," he repeated.

Pretty smile still on her face, Meg turned her head and almost gasped. Yes, there was the Count, in the corner. Shaded. His glass eye caught the light ominously. His slick hair shined unnaturally and his exquisitely tailored suit looked incongruously new, unrumpled. She had never been stared at so blatantly, with such a sickening smile aimed right at her. "Maintain eye contact," Stephen whispered again, pretending to show her the tray. "Now do your stuff."

The Count raised his glass to her. She let a blush crawl up her neck to her cheeks and she dipped her eyelids down demurely. Yet her smile only grew. Then she looked back at the Count and nodded once, willing all the softness and sweetness within her to show in her eyes as she locked them with his again.

Stephen appraised the situation. The Count suddenly looked like a prize peacock, like a happy bull ready to charge. "Good, good!" He whispered. "That's all for now. You've got his attention. You'll be introduced some other time." And off he sped with his tray.

Meg was dumbstruck. That…that was all she had to do tonight? Truly? That…that can't be! All the apprehension, the preparations…and that was it? But here come Andre and Firmin now, to introduce her to important backers. The Count was moving away to another part of the room.

Not even the disturbing force of the Count's look, the simpering act she'd forced herself to put on, or the fact she now had to pull double duty charming the rest of the guests because the unconventional Monsieur Robard had failed to show up to his own party (and so Meg still failed to properly meet him), could dampen her spirit now.

Yes, she would have to meet the Count eventually. And yes, she'd have to do more than meet him…court him, practically. But ah, those worries could wait another day! For now…for now Meg would enjoy her debut in the opera foyer as star, truly enjoy it!

As charming a picture as she made before, her genuine delight with events transformed her even further. She was more openly vivacious, still poised but with a girlish light in her eyes that was more appealing than any studied grace could have been. Her dress suited her perfectly, and the butterflies on her dress and in her hairpins caught the gold in her hair until she was a dazzlingly radiant figure, gold and white and pink. As she rarely wore her hair up outside of ballets, the thrill of her bared neck and shoulders pleased more than one pair of eyes.

Of these pairs of eyes, one watched obscured upstairs, behind a pillar, wrapped in his cloak.

His distrust of the Count, his frustration with the police, all were dulled inside him as he gazed at Meg.

Meg – little Meg – her figure held his attention so violently that Erik did not even think to make the connection between this lovely butterfly and the net she could fall into if not careful.


	39. Chapter 39

That Monday, Meg expelled from her mind all thoughts of the Count and her successful debut into society.

Now she had a greater test:

Impressing Monsieur Robard at the ballet's first rehearsal.

She was delighted but not surprised at the rest of the casting. She had known all long of course that Carolus Fonta would play the Beast and Prince, but she was thrilled to learn that Cecile was playing one of her sisters, along with Adele, who had the right humor for the role. Adele's brother Michel was playing their older brother, and he'd made no disguise of the fact that to him, Cecile Jammes was the most exquisite creature on the planet. Meg suspected there would be a lot of wooing going on between scenes.

Rolf Helm was playing Belle's arrogant suitor, and given Helm's ne'er-do-well personality, Meg couldn't help thinking his casting was perfect.

Filled with excitement, she kept up a steady stream of chatter with her castmates before rehearsal began. Reyer and Giry stood discussing last minute arrangements in the corner.

Meg froze once she saw Robard enter. She ignored the chatter around her. She was the only one to notice him. He slipped in quietly, taking a seat at the back.

Meg looked this way and that. No one still was noticing him. She wondered in a panic if his intention was to constantly stay in the shadows, to never be introduced to his cast. Some great artists were eccentric like that.

But she simply _had _to meet him.

That deep impulsive spark in Meg took over.

Making sure no one was observing her, she hopped offstage and sped to the composer.

He had that dreamy look in his eyes again, staring at the stage.

When she coughed to get his attention, he looked over like one gradually waking up.

Then his wrinkled face stretched into a kindly wry smile. "My Belle," he said, standing and bowing.

Meg could have cried.

Instead she curtseyed. Then in her usual rapid breathy voice she said, "Monsieur, I hope you don't think me forward, but I had to meet you! I've adored your music my whole life! _Vasilisa the Fair, The Nightingale_…genius! They were absolutely genius!" Suddenly she was sitting next to him, clutching his wrist. "Your music is so beautiful and so wonderful to dance to! Oh monsieur, I'm so honored to be playing Belle. Tell me, what should I know about her character that I don't already? Does she resent her family at all? How does she really feel about Armand? Does she care for him, or does she only love the Beast? And tell me: is she secretly disappointed when the Beast turns into the Prince?"

His smile only grew as she went on. At that last part, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, laughing silently. He squeezed the little hand clutching his. Then he opened his eyes and looked at her fondly.

"My dear, let me tell you a secret: this is my last ballet. Truly. I have put my heart and soul into this score, more than in any other piece I've written. And let me tell you one thing more." He gazed directly into her eyes. "My conception of Belle was never as clear as it is now meeting you. I saw a beautiful damsel on the page, whose strength and compassion help the Beast find peace. But you? I wouldn't worry." He shook his head. "You will make her come _alive_."

Meg's heart swelled.

* * *

Yet a few days later a foreign doubt crowded her heart.

Rehearsals were going very well, and Robard, Reyer, and the rest seemed pleased.

But something gnawed at Meg.

This was his last ballet. The one he'd devoted his entire soul to, his goodbye to the theatrical world.

She couldn't just be good.

For him, she must be spectacular.

This she expressed to Erik in his lair, pacing again, as she seemed to often do down here.

"What do you think, monsieur? Am I overthinking? Should I just relax?"

She turned to him, waiting for a reply. Then she frowned.

Erik sat immobile at his pipe organ, staring at the keys as if into an abyss. His mask was off, and there was an air of dark indifference around him.

She studied him. Although he was far from a handsome man, she didn't feel that the deformity was all there was to his face. The deep crevices, twisted flesh, and discoloration served only as a sort of decoration for the prominent cheekbones, the noble set of his jaw, and those arresting eyes unlike any she'd ever seen.

Yet those eyes were so empty now.

Like a tentative doe, she approached him slowly. "Monsieur?" Her brow creased. "Monsieur Erik? What is wrong?"

He shivered all over, rubbing his arms. He sighed.

"Nothing, little Giry. It is nothing."

A short pause. Then, "I do not think it is nothing, monsieur."

Her grave voice appeared to rouse something in him.

He spoke as if the very word was a struggle to get past his lips: "Christine."

Meg was conflicted. Half of her was ashamed at herself for constantly forgetting his sorrow, while the other half was…frustrated.

"What about her, monsieur?"

Tragic eyes lifted to hers. "Oh god, sometimes it comes upon me all at once. The loss." His trembling hands struck his chest again and again, his wild eyes never leaving hers. "The pain of it, the hollow empty pain."

Meg saw tears in the brown and blue irises.

He looked away from her sharply. On this day, when murky dreams of Christine lying in the golden swan bed woke him to a great misery, staring at the bright face of Meg Giry felt even more unfaithful and wrong than usual.

_Why wouldn't she just leave?_

But the girl would not. She dared lay a soft hand on his shoulder. Yet her voice, though gentle, had a hint of stern impatience as well. "Monsieur, you mustn't succumb to your depression. Why do you think Christine wanted me to look after you? For you to live and perish in the same darkness, never looking for happiness? You must move on."

He whirled around on her, face contorted in fury. "_Move on?_ Move on, you little rat? Oh, what do you know of it? You who have confessed to never feeling love, passion, what do you know of the searing heartbreak that leaves you breathless? You are nothing but a…but a mealy-mouthed coward!"

His eyes were from hell, his sneer a serpent's.

Meg quailed in fear.

Then the words reached her and she shook with her own fury.

"How…how _dare_ you? How dare you speak to me so!"

"I speak the truth!"

She spied his mask on the pipe organ. Her eyes narrowed and she grabbed it and waved it in his face. "Who's the coward, monsieur? Look. Even when you don't wear it, it's never far from reach."

Oh, how he hated her in these moments. "You are too vapid to understand. Too vapid to understand anything of real beauty, real despair."

The fire in her glance burned him.

She turned quickly, mask still in hand, and ran to the candelabra on a corner desk.

She lit the mask with the candles' flames.

Then she threw it in the ash bin nearby.

She stared at him hard, once. He was immobile again, staring at the ground expressionless.

She left.

* * *

Madame Giry came home that night to hear her daughter's weak sobs from her bedroom.

Panicking, she rushed inside.

Meg was lying clutching her pillow, tears running down her cheeks.

Madame Giry sat beside her, brushing her hair away from her face. This wasn't like her usually sunny Meg.

"Meg, darling! What is it?"

The girl squeezed her eyes shut. "Mother, I…I was so cruel…_he _was so cruel, and I…oh, Mother! What have I done?" She sat up and threw herself into her mother's arms, sobbing brokenly into Madame Giry's neck.

Giry sensed she might not get the full story.

But she knew, deep in her heart, who it concerned.

She thought back to the few times recently she'd seen Erik with Meg.

And she saw more clearly the eager brightness that entered Meg's face when she'd look at him.

And the look of fear, doubt, and awe in his.

She rocked her daughter in her arms, shushing her gently as she pat her back. Meg couldn't see the uneasy look on her mother's face.


	40. Chapter 40

Meg approached the lair the next morning with the air of a soldier meeting the enemy at the front line. She knew what she had to do. It was only fair.

His back was to her, at his pipe organ as always. He was so busy scribbling he didn't bother facing her, though it was obvious he knew she was there. At least he was writing music again.

Meg stood behind him, hands folded. "Monsieur? Monsieur Erik?"

She finally caught his attention. He stopped writing and raised his head, but still he did not face her.

She took a deep breath then plunged. "Monsieur, I apologize for my actions yesterday. No matter our disagreement, it was terribly inappropriate of me to destroy your mask. There was no excuse for that. I'm sorry."

He did not speak.

She twitched impatiently. "I can make you a new mask! Out of parchment or something. I'm sure it won't be as nice as the other, but" –

"There is no need, mademoiselle." He turned slowly around.

She gasped. She was an idiot not to notice the string around the back of his head before.

He was wearing the usual mask.

"How" –

He snorted derisively. "My dear, do you really think I owned only one mask alone? I have a whole crateful down below." With a sneer he turned back to his music.

"Oh" – Here she was berating herself for something that didn't really matter in the end. Of course, it still hadn't been nice of her; but he could have spoken before she went on like that!

However, her anger quickly gave way to her most dominant emotion: curiosity. She frowned, thinking. "Monsieur, you're such a clever man, so why haven't you ever created a mask that looks realistic? Like…anybody's face?"

He stiffened. He turned back to her, cocking the eyebrow uncovered by the mask. "Why, you make it sound so simple, mademoiselle."

His voice was low and dark.

Whether deliberately or not, Meg ignored the warning tone and simply shrugged. "Oh, well. Just a thought." More soberly, she said, "I do hope you can forgive my thoughtlessness earlier with the mask, monsieur." She brightened. "Anyway, I must be off. Rehearsals. Good day, monsieur!"

Her conscience cleared, it was with a lighter step that Meg hurried out of the lair.

_She is like a thoughtless bird, hopping from branch to branch, uncaring who she annoys with her inopportune chirping!_

"A mask like anybody's face," Erik grumbled mockingly as he returned to his music.

He scowled.

* * *

"Mademoiselle, you must stop shrieking and closing your eyes! You will never hit your target that way, and God forbid you might hurt someone!" Jacques Chauvet struggled to hold back his laughter as he scolded the young dancer on the shooting range just outside the city limits, in a remote clearing in the woods.

As part of her training, Meg agreed to a couple quick lessons with Chauvet, Perrin, and Marcus. Madame Giry was busy with the ballet chorus, and so she sent Erik along with Meg to act as chaperone.

_The great opera ghost reduced to the Giry women's errand boy, _Erik thought scornfully. Still, he made a formidable figure standing behind the officers, tall and wrapped in his black cloak.

What a ridiculous figure Meg Giry made now. Her hand shook as she held the gun, constantly missing the target as she indeed shrieked and looked away.

Stephen Marcus groaned in exasperation. "My dear girl! I'm sure your reticence is very feminine and a credit to your sex, but little good that will do you if things happen to take a sour turn" –

"A sour turn?" The Phantom suddenly interjected. His tone was challenging. "Tell me, Monsieur Marcus. Do you foresee a scenario involving Miss Giry that will indeed turn sour?"

Marcus took in his tight posture, but gave it no heed.

"One never knows, monsieur."

Meg was quite red now. "I'll get it this time," she announced.

She straightened herself nobly and then aimed.

But the minute she pulled the trigger she shrieked, squeezing her eyes shut.

The bullet missed the target by a foot.

It was not the frustration on Chauvet and Perrin's faces that did it. Nor was it Erik's quiet contempt.

It was the sound of Marcus's laughter. The man was practically doubled over.

_That_ made all the difference.

Meg felt a rush of anger and determination burn through her.

Bright jade eyes narrowed, she raised her gun once more.

She did not look away or make a sound as she pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit the center of the target.

A moment of stunned silence.

Then Chauvet's low whistle. "That, my dear, is far more impressive."

Even the ever reserved David Perrin was animated. He raced over to the target and studied the small black hole at its center. "Indeed! What a quick study you are, mademoiselle."

Slightly smug, Meg merely curtseyed and giggled, all hardness gone from her expression.

Her self-possession remained, however.

Meanwhile, the two remaining men stood quiet and contemplative.

Neither could forget the fire in her narrowed pale eyes for those few quick moments.

The contrast between the flames in her eyes and her current girlish charm fascinated Erik and Marcus all the more.

Erik stole a glance at Stephen Marcus. Then his own eyes narrowed.

_A mask like anybody else's face, _he thought vaguely._  
_

* * *

**A/N: Sorry, I know this is super short. I hesitated writing Meg with a gun, since I'm scared of all the LND jokes. **

**Stupid LND. Ruining everything for everyone. Barf.**


	41. Chapter 41

Rehearsals and further educating herself in the art of spying made time fly by at a dazzling speed. Before Meg could catch her breath came the debut performance of _Beauty and the Beast._

After multiple times asking her fellow spies on the force when she would finally meet the Count, Darius at last took her aside and told her. "Look for him in the audience opening night. It won't be long after that."

She gazed out across the audience from the small hole in the curtain now.

She saw his gleaming blue glass eye flash in Box Five.

Her heart thudded dully.

Then she felt a warm hand on her arm.

She turned to her mother.

Although the ballet mistress's expression was as impermeable as always, Meg recognized the deep tenderness and pride sparkling in Madame Giry's eyes and the very beginning of a smile at the corner of her lips.

Meg returned the smile unreservedly.

Madame Giry didn't need to say a word. Meg knew that this was her own night, and no one was going to take it away from her.

She touched her mother's hand. "I'm ready now."

* * *

Of the many reasons Erik had nothing but vicious disdain for the Count, perhaps the shallowest was that Erik could not watch tonight's performance from his usual seat in Box Five. The lecherous criminal liked sitting in his place, apparently.

Erik still adhered to the promise he made to himself after Christine left. He considered himself reformed enough not to continue menacing under the guise of the Phantom.

However, that didn't mean he couldn't still employ a few of the Phantom's old tricks just for himself, such as situating himself in the rafters around the new chandelier now.

The orchestra started. So far he'd only heard the music for Belle's character, since that's what Meg fret over and rehearsed with him. What he heard now pleased him immensely. The music was gloomy yet laced with romanticism; otherworldly.

Magnificently Robard.

Erik justified his own presence tonight as merely satisfying curiosity. Meg – _the Giry chit_, he corrected himself – had taken up so much of his time fussing about the piece and practicing that he saw no reason to miss out on how her performance turned out.

The curtain rose.

The set was a quaint cottage, surrounded by beautifully painted cut-out trees, full of paper cherry blossoms. Belle's brother and the suitor japed around a bit with their bows and arrows, then the vain sisters emerged, scolding them. The suitor danced around them, trying to look into the cottage. For Belle.

The platform whirled around, revealing Belle scrubbing the floor inside the cottage.

On page, she would have looked pitiful: a lonely girl scrubbing away as the day dawned bright outside.

But Meg Giry, brightly radiant in her plain maid clothes, vibrated with brisk energy.

She was beautiful, but more importantly, she was alive.

Neither Erik nor the audience could take their eyes away from her.

The mournful, longing _pas de deux_ with the mop was even more vivaciously touching than in their private rehearsals together. Erik was surprised by his discomfort when the young roguish suitor entered and attempted to join her in the dance.

Instead of paling delicately, a flash of fire turned her eyes to emeralds. It was clear that she might be attracted to the suitor, but that deep in her heart she was repulsed by his piggish manners.

The set and music changed tone drastically once her father became lost in the woods. The trees were painted a darker shade and the music crescendoed like a wind storm. The beast's castle was a stylistic masterpiece; all that was visible were black walls and the occasional macabre gargoyle. The dance chorus transformed into enchanted candle holders and statues.

Fonta was at the top of his form as the Beast, and Erik's eyebrow flew to his forehead at the sight of his costume and makeup.

He had the face of an animal. Matte hair covered his face like fur. Fangs and whiskers combined to make him look something half lion and half bull. Pointed ears and fangs completed the ferocious look, but Fonta's great black eyes lent the Beast a gentle sort of pathos even as he terrorized Belle's father.

What took Erik's attention the most was the Beast's outfit.

His wide ornate collar was definitely influenced by the 18th century setting, but something about his long black cloak and his serpentine moments reminded Erik oddly of…himself.

He wondered how much Robard had been inspired and influenced by the gossip from the theater for his ballet.

Erik felt more closely tied to this strange tortured beast than ever before.

When Meg first entered and encountered the Beast, she fainted. Erik shuddered a bit – he was reminded of Christine's own fainting spell that first night in his lair, upon seeing her dummy dressed as his bride.

Yes, Erik felt a kinship with the cursed prince.

Meg recovered very quickly, however, and proved her mettle by dancing right up to the Beast, her eyes fiery emeralds again.

A strange compassion soon imbued her soft movements…she tilted her head in that characteristic way of hers as the Beast physically expressed woe at his sorry state.

Belle and the Beast grew close, establishing a rapport through dance. This fascinated Erik. Something about the precise, matter-of-fact way Meg moved and reacted reminded him of…her own interactions with him. This Belle was obviously awed by the enchanted surroundings she found herself in, and more than a little wary of her strange companion. Yet Belle's curiosity and compassion took over, until she treated Beast more as an erring child who must be put to right by her example rather than a true threat. Before long, they both treated each other as equals instead of prisoner and warden.

Yes, that reminded Erik of the two of them.

That and the similarity to Beast's costume and his own made Erik…deeply uncomfortable.

Above and beyond everything was Meg's astounding charisma onstage. The music seemed written for her. The contrast between the classical, almost baroque scales and the contemporary, eerie pulses beneath matched her lively dancing, her animated expressions.

From what little Erik could see of the audience below, they were both spellbound and charmed by the ballet and most in particular with the unconventional sprite at its center.

Meg was unquestionably a Star.

In between acts, Meg was as busy as ever, not resting as most performers would in their starring debut. She rushed to and fro, peeking out the curtain, jumping up and down excited with Cecile and Adele, helping Pauline with last minute adjustments for the dancers in the next act.

All this Erik spied from the rafters. He eventually crept closer to the backstage area, lingering near the curtain.

He heard her whisper to her mother, "Do you think _he _likes it? Do you?"

For a brief, horrifyingly bright moment, Erik thought she might mean him.

But no.

Erik unconsciously deflated when he realized she only meant Robard.

* * *

Erik felt cold and clammy as the last scene began. The Beast lay dying in the rose garden. Belle came upon him looking like a flustered child. She was adamant he should live and pulled at him, tears in her green-gray eyes.

Erik struggled with his own tears behind his mask.

He shivered as the child disappeared and for the first time Meg's face took on a look of mature womanhood. She kissed the Beast.

Erik closed his eyes, memories beating against him mercilessly.

Throughout the scene Beast's face was hidden by his cloaked arm. As he stood now, it was plain this was due to Fonta no longer wearing makeup. He revealed himself lifted of his curse by Meg's kiss. He was again a handsome prince.

What happened next was Meg's own invention. Erik could tell because he read her parts of the manuscript.

She looked warily disappointed by the change.

In a somewhat coquettish manner, she at last acquiesced to the handsome man's charms, but the curtain fell on one final impression: Belle would always miss her Beast.

The audience roared in approbation.

Meg was called out several times for encore. She made a delightfully comical sight trying to juggle the large bouquet of pink roses handed to her that was almost her height.

Erik noticed that as she curtseyed, she kept her eyes on one figure only:

Her conductor, Monsieur Pierre Robard.

The look in his eyes made Meg happier than all the applause in the world.

Gratitude.

* * *

Erik took a long walk in the dark streets of Paris afterward. He knew he was missing observing the after party, but he shuddered when he thought of it: he knew, he _knew_ that there she would finally meet the Count.

He couldn't bear that right now.

His cloak's collar hid the bottom half of his face. He looked merely like a man shielding himself from the night's chill.

He passed absently by a slightly more populated neighborhood.

"Flower for your special lady, monsieur?"

Erik turned to the squat old lady who sat in her shawl by her boxes of flowers.

She held up to him a single yellow rose.

All at once Erik thought of Persia. He remembered one blissful day when he escaped from the guards' watchful eyes, probably thanks to some distraction or another Anahid provided. He found an empty orchard of yellow roses and lied on his back there, staring into the brilliant azure sky. He could still remember the sweet smell of the roses all around him. He was all of fourteen years old.

Tied up in this memory was Meg, Meg. There had been such a profound feeling of simple happiness in that orchard. No insanity, no bitterness, just a lively appreciation for this unquestioning, undemanding beauty all around him.

_Meg._

Erik bought the rose.


	42. Chapter 42

Meg's mind was far away from the after party. She smiled pleasantly at the eruption of applause when she entered the ballroom, but in truth she barely noticed it.

Her eyes scanned the crowd, looking for only two figures.

The first was Robard. Although she could tell by the warm look on his face from the orchestra stand that he was pleased by her performance, she needed to hear him say it.

Plus, she figured he must be lonely on this the day of his comeback. Meg had investigated, and discovered he had no wife, no children. No family. No friends, really, except for Carolus Fonta.

He had only his genius.

How similar he was to the second man she looked for tonight, though she was aware she could not see him. Still, she concentrated on the space around her, trying to sense him.

She knew she could feel his presence if she tried.

_Erik._

What had _he_ thought of the performance…?

"Ah, our fabulous Miss Giry!" Meg turned to see the managers mincing up to her. Each had the stunned look of a shot rabbit in their eyes.

She saw why.

They had with them the Count.

Meg sucked in a breath. She emptied her face of any anxiety.

"Miss Giry," Firmin said quickly. "Here is one of our most valued patrons. He is most eager to meet you."

Before Meg could react, the Count swept up her hand and kissed it. Her stomach turned. "Enchanted, my dear."

He smiled at her, looking for all the world like an oily crocodile. A large pink carnation stared out of his button-hole.

He smelled heavily of sandalwood.

Meg always had to be careful of her face. There the viewer could see everything. Her expressions were a window into her thoughts and feelings. The mildest of emotions was nakedly on display.

Yet the fire of determination burned in her chest, and like magic, all her face displayed was a modest pleasure at his attention.

Blushing expertly, she curtseyed. "You're too kind, monsieur." She spoke so softly he had to lean in to hear it. A masterful trick.

She mildly registered panic, noticing the managers had vanished. She hid the panic in the dimples she presented to the Count.

He had not let go of her hand. He pat it now. "Your dancing was breathtaking, little one! Such effortless charm, such fire!" He winked his good eye at her. "Of course, it's always you sweet, adorable ones who have the most spirit, I've found."

She chortled like a lark. "Monsieur!" Her blush deepened. "I…I don't know what to say."

"Don't say a thing, my dear!" He looked puffed up, his ego stoked by her flirtatious embarrassment. "You must allow me the honor, young lady, of toasting your success at dinner whenever you are at your leisure. I will serve you like the queen you are."

He bowed in what would have been a comical display of courtliness, if cunning violence didn't radiate from his every gesture.

Meg beat the fan she was holding fiercely, willing her face to stay serene and girlish.

He straightened and looked into her jade eyes. They were swimming warmly at him, in contrast to her humble blushing expression.

Whether or not the Count detected any artifice in her, it did not matter to him. She seemed innocent enough; and appearances were all that mattered to him. Why should he care if a winsome dancer is less candid than she appears? As long as she accepted his patronage, little mattered to the man.

He had other, more serious matters to concern him (he stole a quick glance at his pocket watch). He could scarcely imagine the starry-eyed young woman before him could have anything to do with those matters.

* * *

Meg learned enough to know she shouldn't linger too long with the Count right away – she must shroud herself in mystery, keep him wanting more.

A few more murmured replies – she neither confirmed nor denied his proposal for dinner – and she hurried off: as if her desire for him frightened her, and was chasing her away.

In truth, she rushed away because she saw a white crown of hair disappearing up the stairs near the foyer.

Robard.

She simply had to see him, talk to him.

Meg would be his surrogate daughter if he wanted – she knew, just _knew_ he must be lonely. Here he was at his own after party, walking away alone!

She saw him disappear down the empty foyer. She followed.

She frowned as she heard murmured voices at the end of the darkened hall. She turned the corner then halted, stunned.

Robard stood alone with Carolus Fonta. The older man's hand was caressing the handsome dancer's cheek. "My love, you were incredible tonight. You took my breath away, my beast."

Fonta gave him a rakish smile. His eyes sparkled with adoration. "My prince," he replied.

Meg's mouth dropped open as the two men kissed.

Deeply.

She…she didn't know what to think. They…they…of course, she wasn't _completely_ naïve; she'd lived long enough in the artistic world to _hear _of such things. But to see it!

She hid behind a pillar as they broke their kiss.

The two chuckled together lovingly, as one.

"And tell me, my prince," Fonta said in a light tone, "What did you make of our dear Miss Giry in her starring debut?"

Meg could not see his face, but she could hear the smile in Robard's voice. "Ah, enchanting! Simply enchanting!"

"She has your approval, then?"

"Of course. She passed the ultimate test: she made me jealous."

The two men laughed again and Fonta threw his strong arms around the handsome older gentleman's neck. "My love, you have nothing to fear!"

"I know, my beast. I know."

Meg could not take her eyes off them as they swayed in each other's arms silently. They looked as if they were dancing to a tune only they heard.

At last she tore herself away, sneaking off quietly.

* * *

Her heart was full as she returned to her dressing room. She stared at herself in the mirror. The pale pink gown she wore was lovely, more subtle than her usual selections in that shade. Her glorious hair was up again but with ringlets curled down about her face. She was very beautiful tonight.

She'd also just had the most successful night of her life. The audience's enthusiasm confirmed the sense of well-being and joy she felt at the end of that breathtaking performance.

Why, then, did she feel so terribly alone now?

She thought back to what she'd just witnessed. She couldn't sort her feelings. She dimly remembered her scant childhood religious teachings. The Bible said something or other about how sinful that sort of thing was.

But…how _could _it be?

The gentleness in their faces, their touch. No, there was no sin there.

There was…_beauty._

Meg almost shook her head at herself. How could that be beautiful? What was beautiful was Belle and the Prince, after the spell was broken. _That_ was everything she ever learned about love and beauty.

Yet why did that in retrospect feel oddly false, and what she saw between Robard and Fonta seem far more genuine?

Meg realized on some level she must have known all along conventionality was not always the desired outcome. Why else would she have decided to make Belle a little disappointed that she lost her Beast at the end?

Her thoughts flew immediately to Erik.

Tortured eyes in a massacre of a face. His voice haunted her whether it spoke in dulcet tones or was spiked with violence.

She had not sensed Erik tonight.

Her sense of loneliness was crushed further by disappointment. Sunny, optimistic Meg Giry never felt so desolate before.

Something on her vanity caught her eye. She'd been too distracted before to notice.

She picked it up with wonder, similar to what she felt when she picked up Erik's mask in the lair, months ago.

A single yellow rose.


	43. Chapter 43

Charles Bisset's review eclipsed his praise of Meg in _David Copperfield_, hailing her Belle as bringing a much needed jolt of life to the ballet.

"Mlle. Giry turns on its head the role of the beautiful damsel. She brings not only fire and liveliness to her characterization, but a unique level-headedness that keeps Belle grounded. One leaves the performance with the impression that Belle is not only the sanest person in the story, but the tale's true hero. Belle might not tote a sword and shield, but her spark, common sense, and her compassion save the day more than any fumbling suitor could."

Other papers reached the same conclusion, praising not only Meg's acting but her grace and dance form.

Overnight, the heretofore popular chorus dancer became a sensation.

Erik saw the articles and headlines, and vaguely felt an odd sort of pride, but this was trumped by his growing anxiety.

She had met the Count. What now?

This he and her mother discussed in the Giry kitchen, Meg gone to collect the papers. Erik was so distracted he'd not even cared to bring his mask, and instead tried obscuring himself in the relative darkness of the room.

Madame Giry looked on the surface as stoic as ever, but Erik could see the protective lioness in her stance and in the light burning in her black eyes. "I do not trust the secret police here anymore than I did in Naser's court, Erik."

"That goes without saying, Anahid."

Her gaze was unchanging. "Any thoughts?"

Erik felt surprisingly panicked at the question. She asked as though Meg's fate was in his hands as well as hers.

Did Anahid…_suspect_ something?

But what was there to suspect? Erik was fond of the girl, he'd admit. Her performance was so splendid he momentarily got carried away and gave her a rose. It was merely a tribute to a fabulous artist.

Why should he care what the fabulous artist does offstage?

Yet the idea of the Count near her…near her pert smile, her earnest large eyes, the man's eyes raking over her form….

Erik fought the nausea engulfing him.

Yes, he was concerned about her, but he insisted to himself that it was the concern a distant uncle feels for his rambunctious niece, or –

"Erik?" Anahid was still waiting for an answer.

Erik grew irritable. "I don't know! How should I? You're the girl's mother, after all. What are _your _thoughts?"

Anahid drew in a shallow breath and thought for a moment. "All either of us can do is be vigilant. Meg says she can extricate herself from this without compromising her virtue, and I want to trust her. In fact, I _do_ trust her. Again, what I don't trust is the police force. No, not even Darius. They will go to any lengths to capture their man, regardless of the consequences to Meg. So, you and I must watch to make sure they don't hurt her."

As Anahid spoke, Erik's anxiety increased. _Just the concern of the distant uncle, just the concern of the distant uncle…._

Meg ran into the room, out of breath. She had in her arms various papers.

Her face was alight with joy.

"Have…have you read this? Charles Bisset! Duval Derroux! They all…they all like me!" Her dazzling smile seemed to cast a sunbeam all over the room.

Even Madame Giry could not help her small smile of pride. "Yes, my dear. I saw. I am not surprised, my love."

Meg flushed, happy tears in her eyes. "It's not really for me that I care so much. Well, that's a lie, I do care. But it's mostly for Monsieur Robard! I haven't disappointed him!"

So saying she rushed to her mother and threw her arms around her neck, kissing her on the cheek, laughing joyously. She didn't seem to mind that the papers had fallen out of her grasp, scattered all over the floor.

Then it happened. Before Erik could react or move, Meg flung her arms thoughtlessly around his neck and then –

She kissed him on his deformed cheek.

Sweetly, thoughtlessly, casually.

She kissed the monster's cheek.

Such a whirl Meg was in that she was out the door again having recollected the papers, spilling out of her arms. She called over her shoulder. "I need to show these to Cecile! There's a wonderful blurb about her in here as well! Let's see if she can tear herself away from Michel for a few minutes." She giggled and closed the door behind her.

Madame Giry stared sharply at Erik.

The Phantom was breathing heavily, staring with horror ahead of him, into nothing.

_Oh God, Meg, what have you done to the man?_

* * *

Later in his lair, Erik sat cradling his arms on his throne. He was shaken in a far different way than when Christine kissed him so many months ago.

Meg…Meg kissed him as if it were nothing…as if his face were like any other.

Christine, his dear blessed Christine, had needed courage from God to kiss him.

Meg kissed him as she would anyone.

_As if he _were_ anyone._

But no, more than that: she kissed him as if he were someone she was truly, deeply fond of, and kissed all the time.

It took Erik a long moment to identify the warm buzzing inside his chest.

Happiness. Hope.

He was terrified.

What…what did this _mean? _Who _was_ this girl? Who was this girl to kiss him gaily, to smile at him radiantly? To stand by him, take care of him, take charge and become a spy? To dance like an ethereal sprite with a spine of goodness and sanity?

Erik clutched his chest as he came close to the conclusion that….

No, no, it was impossible, he wouldn't let himself, Christine, _Christine_ –

_Meg's beautiful bee-stung lips pressed sweetly against his malformed cheek –_

No. He could no longer deny it.

He choked on a sob as he faced the unavoidable realization.

He was attracted to Meg. He cared for her. Cared for her far more than a distant uncle does his rambunctious neice.

He groaned as he ran his hand over his face and through his scant hair.

Damn him, damn him, DAMN HIM.

Damn _her._

Yes, with this realization came a storm of fury, directed at the dancing brat.

How dare she do this to him?

How dare she so casually and blithely ruin his life all over again?

How dare she make him betray Christine, his good angel, his saint?

Christine and Meg, Meg and Christine. One was his soul; spiritual and angelic, so gentle and misty.

The other was his burning, beating heart, life and brightness and agonizing lust and yearning.

Heaven versus Earth.

How could he, Erik, prefer Earth over Heaven?

No, no, this was a passing whim, that's all, a weak middle aged man's fancy….

_She kissed him as though he looked like anybody._

No one heard his strangled cry into the darkness.

* * *

A/N: Not gonna lie, Erik's having a bit of a "Hellfire" moment from Hunchback of Notre Dame here. He's Frollo, Meg's Esmeralda, and Christine's Maria, lol. Not that he's planning to burn Meg at the stake, don't worry. :P

(Also, chapters will get longer soon, don't fret.)


	44. Chapter 44

"…Anyway, I think maybe my last _brise_ in the second act is too choppy. I've been working on making it more fluid. Sometimes my short build really is a pain! I do think I land nicely, though. Cecile is the best at flexibility. Her turns are a dream! I always thought she…."

Erik listened to Meg without really taking her in. They sat near the dance bar in the Giry flat, the girl stretching her leg across it as she chatted on blithely.

Erik sat like a cornered animal, shoulders hunched. He looked at her bright hair, glittering eyes, and small curvaceous form with as much fear as desire.

He wanted this girl, this chatting little thoughtless doll. He wanted her eyes to warm over as they gazed at him, for her cheeks to blush for him only.

_Oh, God…._

He'd come here ostensibly to inquire if there was further word from the police, but really, he came to see if the fire of his realization would be dimmed by seeing her again through his new perspective. Maybe he'd jumped to the conclusion of attraction too quickly, and the sight of her would fall short of his fevered images of her.

The moment she opened the door, he knew he was doomed.

For what seemed the first time, he noticed how tight the bodice of her tutu was, how the straps freely revealed her rounded shoulders, her slender neck. Her cheeks were flushed from practicing. She was a brightly colored rose of a girl.

He swallowed drily as he watched her stretch and dance.

He was quite, quite doomed. _Christine…._

Both started as the door banged open. Madame Giry charged in, more fury in her features than either could clearly remember.

She waved a letter in the air. "Ha! A note from our Count! He has invited you to dinner, Meg!"

Erik felt like someone had poured acid down his throat.

Meg, meanwhile, felt a cold eerie calm claim her. "Oh."

Madame Giry sneered. "'Oh', indeed." She shook her head, her face hard with affronted dignity. "No, I won't have this, Meg. I've thought it over, and I cannot allow it. You will not be put in this position."

This sparked some fury in her daughter as well. "Mother, this is my decision! I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to this. I…I think I have a plan, anyway."

"What sort of plan?" Erik asked quietly.

He lost his breath as her great green eyes met his. "A plan to put him out of our lives once and for all."

* * *

The evening was a clear warm one. The street by the Count's house was mostly empty.

Around the corner was a coach from the opera house. Inside Meg and Erik sat across from Darius and Stephen Marcus.

Meg's mother was at headquarters with Cedric Berger, hammering out a contingency plan if Meg's did not work.

Meg's heart fluttered madly in her chest, but otherwise she still felt that eerie calm. Her large eyes were pure gray in the dim street light shining through the coach's window. Her little fingers squeezed very tight the straps of her reticule.

Marcus watched the streetlight play on her curls.

_Is her hair more red or blonde?_ Marcus mused.

He found himself in desperate need of distraction. If he thought too much of what was going on, he'd have to think about Meg Giry in the Count's clutches, and then he'd have to think about how that made him feel.

He was jealous.

Hard-bitten former street Apache Stephen Marcus was jealous of some greasy crook for romancing a little dancing chit.

Yet something about the girl's clear-eyed directness, her sweetness absolutely devoid of any flirtatious design, had burrowed its way into Stephen's tom cat heart. Her devotion to upholding her virtue and good name, both for her mother and for herself, was such a quaint contradiction to the predicament she found herself in.

He was charmed by her.

The Phantom sat next to Meg, so still and silent it was easy to forget he was alive and not a ghost after all.

Darius finished his briefing. "…And the coach will be waiting around the corner if all else fails." A kindlier gleam entered his hazel eyes which before were as professional and detached as his dry words. The young girl looked more like a trapped rabbit than a cool vixen. "Are you ready, mademoiselle?"

Meg swallowed the lump in her throat. Eyes still wide and full of terror, she said, "Yes."

Quickly now she shot out of the carriage without a backward glance to Erik or Marcus. Both men felt a frantic loss.

* * *

"Thank you, Ramon," the Count said to his butler and associate. The Count corked the champagne himself.

Ramon was ever compliant in his formal butler coat and tails, in contrast to his large, rough, lantern-jawed appearance. He bowed silently before answering the door.

The Count heard dainty footsteps stop at the doorway of the drawing room. He glanced up and then swallowed his smile of eagerness.

"You may leave for the night, Ramon." The butler bowed again and then turned to leave. Whenever the master had a rendezvous, he did not want any of the servants around.

Meg decided not to obscure the look of nervous agitation on her face. She had convinced the others that tremulous innocence was the right angle to play, and she wasn't about to shed that mask now.

So far, this was her easiest acting exercise to date. She felt as scared as she looked, but for different reasons than the Count was suspecting. She hoped to project indecision of whether or not to abandon her hard-earned virtues in the face of such an alluring and powerful man, instead of the truth: whether she could get away with fooling him and if the rest of the plan would succeed – especially before things went _too_ far.

"My dear!" The Count exclaimed, kissing her little hand as he did after the ballet's premiere. "You are a vision!"

The hot flush of scarlet along her neck bloomed like a sunset against the pale yellow silk of her evening gown. Yellow was a maidenly color, she thought, though the gown's design possessed a flash of elegance that kept her, in Marcus's words, from appearing too puritanical in her purity.

The vast scooped neckline revealed the tops of her shoulders, and the little cupped sleeves showed off her arms. Meg was a little self-conscious about her arms in this case: like any dancer, she had quite a bit more muscle than the usual plumpness men desired in female limbs, even in her arms. However, the Count seemed more than satisfied by the tininess of her waist accomplished by the corset, the shapeliness of her neck, the fullness of her bosom and shoulders, to overlook her arms' sinew.

Her lips trembled as she looked shyly first into the Count's eyes and then at anything but. "Oh, Monsieur Count, I do not know if I should be here." Her voice was small but sweet.

Like the Count, she hid her satisfaction as his chest quite literally puffed up before her eyes. The more tormented and conflicted she was, the more inflated became his ego. "Nonsense, nonsense, my dear!" He soothed her. He never released her hand. "I am not some big bad wolf who will eat you up. I am but a poor worshiper paying homage at your feet."

So saying, he gestured to the red sofa against the windows – where the curtains were drawn. "Come, let us sit a bit while our dinner cools! I had my butler and cook prepare the entree ahead of time, so they would not distract us tonight."

Meg held her breath as he led her in, some thick haze of incense that gave her a slight headache wafting throughout the room. She let her discomfort show, knowing he would interpret it again only as more maidenly conflict.

"You have a lovely home, Count," she said as she accepted his glass of champagne.

He joined her on the sofa, crossing his leg. "Yes, rather swank, what? I've only lived here for about six months. However, a man who doesn't leave a mark no matter how long he stays somewhere is a man without any style, eh?"

Meg suppressed her shudder. How thickly coated with gel his hair was, how drenched in cologne.

She looked around the home. A large tiger skin was in the middle of the floor, face stilled in affronted agony. Various guns and animal heads filled the walls.

"You hunt, Count?"

He shrugged. "I _collect_."

His finger just lightly brushed one of her loose curls.

She inched just slightly away – hoping fervently that such a show of modesty would inflame him, not enrage him. "Um, and what do you do to preoccupy yourself besides collecting?"

Quite subtly the light in his good eye dimmed, hardened. She saw him fiddle with something in his vest pocket – the watch she'd seen earlier. "Oh, the usual sort of thing. Keep up with my correspondence, patronize the arts, travel…."

He eyed the watch.

Meg tilted her head, studying it. Like everything else the Count owned, this watch was ostentatious in its tasteful expensive splendor, unusually big for a pocket watch. In spite of its fine make, it didn't appear to close very easily –

She looked up at him at just the same moment he shoved the watch back into his pocket and looked at her. "But ah, enough about me, my dear! As I said, I am now but your humble servant. It is _you_ I am so curious to know about."

He grabbed her hand and squeezed it hard, drawing it near him. He looked at her bosom, then at her eyes wide as any doe's.

_How beautifully this little shy thing blushes and looks away, _he thought happily.

"Me, Count? Oh, there is nothing too fascinating about me, I assure you. I am only a little dancer, monsieur!"

"Nonsense," he murmured. "You are a star, mademoiselle. You are the most fascinating of creatures." He kissed her hand again, his lips lingering.

Now, she thought. We'll begin now. She fanned herself with her hand, panting. "Oh, monsieur! I…I am terribly hot! The heat tonight! Could…could we crack the window open just a little?"

The Count knew she was trying to distract him, but again merely assigned it as one last desperate attempt to extricate herself from her true desires.

He shrugged easily. "Of course, mademoiselle. Just a bit."

He reached beneath the curtain and nudged the window open a crack, leaving the curtains drawn.

"Thank you," she said, looking down at her demure crossed hands folded in her lap.

Refusing to let those hands be, he swept one up again. Raw lust was in his voice as he at last launched fully into his own charade. "My dearest, I love you completely. I once believed falling in love at first sight was only something in stories, but now I know the truth! I am in agony, little one. I adore you madly, beyond all reason. If I can't have you, I shall run amok."

He kissed her hand once more, then, emboldened, planted one on her creamy white shoulder, sprinkled with little freckles.

_Now. _Pale emerald eyes full of tears, she continued fanning herself with increased violence. She leaned her head back.

The Count was too distracted studying the long extended column of her neck to notice that when she spoke, she was aiming her words out the open window. "Oh, monsieur! I can't! I just can't! I…I believe I shall faint!"

Sighing and with one delicate tear falling gracefully down her cheek, she did just that, in the Count's arms.

_Oh, bother, _thought the Count. _I'm all for innocent reticence, but an actual swoon! That is a bit much._

Although annoyed, she was one of the most scrumptious morsels the Count had ever come across, so he hastened to the next room to fetch smelling salts.

The minute he left Meg's eyes flew open. She flipped over to the window and opened and closed it, three times.

Outside, Marcus gave the thumbs-up to Erik, who stood at the far side of the house near the gate. The Phantom disappeared around the corner.

* * *

In the cabinet of his washroom, the Count muttered irritated to himself as he sorted through the various tinctures and potions he kept for his own fastidious uses.

Just as he landed on the smelling salts, he heard a great crash of glass at the back of the house.

His blood cooled and his eyes narrowed as he leapt into action, instinct kicking in.

Meg blessed her genetics for her good ears. Standing just behind the door near the side of the room the Count exited, she could hear him race across the washroom to his study. She stood with her back against the wall, staring out the doorway. Such a rush he was in that he kept the study's door open just a crack.

Heart in her throat, Meg sucked in a preparatory breath and kicked off her shoes. Without making a sound, she hurried over. Flattening herself against the wall beside the door, she peeked in.

The Count removed the watch from his vest again. He tested it, looked inside it, and then snapped it shut. Meg squinted her eyes. The watch had a small lock, she noticed, but he failed to secure it. Meg frowned. He didn't look like he was searching in his study for any papers. He was instead looking at the walls. At last he found it: a short pistol.

Cocking the gun, he checked for bullets. Satisfied, he straightened his jacket, expression sharp.

Meg knew what that meant. She sped back to the safety of the drawing room. She heard him leave to investigate the disturbance.

Meg prayed fervently. _Please, God, let Erik be safe. Don't let the Count find him or hurt him._

She tried to distract herself, pacing the room. In her mind's eye she kept seeing the Count in his study, fiddling with his watch.

* * *

The Count cursed himself for giving the servants the night off. The sound came from the kitchen near the servants' quarters, and were any of them present, they certainly would have apprehended the intruder by now.

_You knew it was only a matter of time before the police or one of your enemies did something rash, you dolt, but you had to let your guard down for this girl…._

Still, he did not suspect Meg. In the wake of whatever just happened, the swooning girl was temporarily forgotten.

His steps slowed once he neared the kitchen. There…there was no glass anywhere. The windows were unbroken. He twisted around, looking carefully. No intruder.

He opened the door and looked outside.

There he saw it: a shattered wine bottle on the short concrete patio.

The patio which was situated just beside the gate, the gate which separated this side of the house from the street.

Rueful fury filled him. It was clear what happened. Some drunk had had his fill of drink and carelessly hurled the bottle over the fence as he passed. Bastard.

He stood sullenly.

However…he started contemplating the matter more closely.

_Some drunk just happened to throw his wine bottle over my fence on the one night there are no servants, the one night I'm distracted?_

No. No, he didn't know exactly what was going on, but the story just didn't fit. While he was outside, maybe the intruder was climbing up to the top windows, or was rooting around in the cellars through the outside basement door….

The girl would have to leave, that much was clear. Damn, and he'd been so close!

And so the panic, the rush, and his own egotistical lust blinded him completely to the obvious solution: the girl Meg Giry.

He hurried back to her with a distracted apologetic smile. She sat with languid confusion on the couch, as if she'd only just come to. "My sweet, are you feeling better? Good! I do offer you my sincerest apologies, but I just received word from a business associate. It appears we will have to postpone our engagement for another night, you and I."

Meg stood slowly and her face was so soft and understanding. "Of course, my – Monsieur Count. I must go." She moved quite close to him as he helped her on with her white cloak.

Small gloved hands were tentatively yet lustfully on his chest, spreading over, into his vest. He was lost in her swirling eyes, full of shy longing. She looked like a child awakened for the first time to love and all its scintillating possibilities. "I thank you," she whispered. She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.

He shivered at the feel of her soft lips against his skin and her warm hands through his shirt. She left without another word.

So benumbed by frustrated lust and worry was he that he never gave thought to how she would get home.

* * *

Erik and Marcus made it back to the carriage. Each face held a hard anxiety, while Darius was a perfect picture of unconcern.

"What could be taking her so long?" Erik hissed, gazing out the window.

Marcus crossed his arms, glowering. "You sure the Count heard you?"

"Yes, of course I am!" Erik spat. "_You _heard it, after all, and you were farther away than he was."

"Perhaps we should have used a bigger bottle."

"You ass, show me a bigger bottle than that, and I'll crown you King of France!"

"Now look here" –

"Shhhh," Darius said, holding his finger up. "She comes."

They heard the tip-tap of her slippers on the pavement quickly running their way.

Simultaneously, Erik and Marcus pushed open the door just as she arrived. They helped her in.

She was panting in earnest now, out of breath.

Gone was all trace of the palpitating ingénue from the drawing room, the scared young girl from earlier this evening. She had the wild triumphant look of a jungle cat who'd caught its largest prey yet. In her rush, her hair had come out of her bun and was slipping down to her shoulders in thick curling waves.

Even Darius was a bit taken back by her fly-away beauty. It took him a moment to ask, "Well, mademoiselle? Were you successful?"

A wicked grin was his answer.

Three eyebrows raised as she revealed what she had in her hand:

A gold pocket watch.

This seemed a perfect symbol of anticlimax.

"Meg…." Erik said with a slight edge.

"In his haste he forgot to lock it," she said buoyantly.

She popped it open, then felt around the watch face. Discovering the catch, she peeled it back.

For the first time Meg saw true animation in Darius's face. _"The papers!" _

Folded again and again into the tiniest square imaginable was actually one paper: the Count had copied the original onto this one thin sheet, and tucked it into this large ornate eyesore.

The three men's grins matched Meg's.


	45. Chapter 45

The Count's arrest still made headlines several weeks later. Once he'd put two and two together and realized the only possible culprit who could have made off with his watch was the naïve young ballerina he'd set out to seduce, it had taken all of Darius's subtlety to keep him from announcing it – a deal which ended with life imprisonment instead of the death sentence for the bamboozled Count.

Meanwhile, that very ballerina was just glad to put behind her that unpleasant first assignment, and proud she'd succeeded. Madame Giry worried in a light way that the girl's head would swell to popping the way Meg carried herself proud like a peacock the days after.

However, as usual Meg soon hopped onto other subjects to keep her busy, such as her growing fame in _La Belle et la Bete._ The ballet was the opera's biggest success since _Hannibal_, and Meg was quickly becoming a household name in Paris.

One evening three weeks after the Count's arrest, Meg sat reading aloud a serial to Erik. _Au Bonheur des Dames_, the eleventh novel in Emile Zola's _Rougon-Macquart_ series, was uncharacteristically high-brow for Meg's tastes, who tended to favor more action-driven penny dreadfuls. Meg was drawn to the lead character Denise, however, and her struggles to make a living and find romance in the world of retail.

Erik ceased providing excuses for visiting the Giry flat. Meg was eager not to destroy the sense of excitement and strange serenity whenever Erik's troubled eyes stared out of his mask when she opened the door to him. So for once, she kept her many questions to herself. She simply played hostess as she would anyone else who would come to make calls.

"Ooh! Listen to this part here, I like this," she said excitedly, losing herself in the story. Erik, meanwhile, only vaguely heard the words. He was glad Anahid was busy rehearsing with the ballet chorus while the leads rested. That sharp woman would surely recognize how lost and pathetic he was, staring and staring at her daughter.

Erik saw Persia in Meg's eyes. But not the Persia of the little Sultana, of Naser's weakness, of the maze of mirrors. But Persia of the evening landscapes, the sunsets and the incense, the healed bird's beautiful song. The chorus of peasant girls' giggles as they made their way back to the village with the laundry, old women affectionately admonishing their grandchildren as they scampered in late for evening supper. That was the Persia in Meg's eyes.

She was so small, so quaint, so fiery and full of life.

And once again the most terrifying and heartbreaking realization of all kept haunting Erik:

_She treated him as she would anyone else._

He'd become so used to keeping her and everyone else in thrall. How many times had he heard her cry out in equal parts fear and wild curiosity, "He's here! The Phantom of the Opera"?

He was accustomed to appearing something far more than human. The Angel. The Phantom. Never just Erik anymore.

Yet now he was. In her eyes – she, always the most frightened! – he was Erik.

The feeling warmed him like nothing else.

Meg stopped short at the knock on her door.

Erik cringed when she answered and announced, "Oh! Monsieur Marcus!"

_Him again._

Officer Stephen Marcus was a frequent caller here as well. He also initially tried keeping up the pretense of visiting for professional instead of personal reasons. Following up on the Count's arrest, giving her further pointers on the life of a spy – all this and more he plied for reasons to visit when he knew she was not rehearsing.

Whenever Erik was present, these visits would deteriorate into the two men glaring at each other solemnly as Meg sat in the middle, chatting away. She sensed there was tension between the two, but she didn't dream it involved her.

As Meg looked at Monsieur Marcus now, she saw there was a hard sort of determination in his face. "Won't you come in?"

"Actually, mademoiselle, there is something I'd like to ask you in private." Meg fidgeted awkwardly a bit, glancing out of the corner of her eyes at Erik. To save her from embarrassment, Stephen hurried to add, "Perhaps you'd like to join me on a walk outside? What I have to discuss with you won't last long."

Meg looked once more to Erik. He was inscrutable. "Um, Mother should be back soon," she offered him.

A slow incline of Erik's head was his only answer.

Meg shrugged to Marcus, grinning. "I'll grab my hat!"

* * *

As they walked outside the opera house, Meg Giry made a pretty but decidedly inelegant figure in her childish blue and white checkered dress with bonnet. She looked like a child's doll; she spoke in a voice so thin and girlish it bordered on tinny.

Yet to him, there was nothing on Earth prettier, more appealing. That voice, which might have slightly grated on a lesser man, was so lively and familiar.

He swallowed drily.

It was just before sunset. The streets were fairly empty by the opera house, which the officer of the secret police was glad of.

He fidgeted with his tie.

This seasoned man about town was as nervous and unsure as a maiden on her wedding day.

He tried to conjure up images of any woman in his past he'd had dalliances with. He could scarcely recall a single face. When he thought of them, he remembered only dull descriptors, as if reading them in a book: one tall and snide, one flirtatious and buxom, another mysterious and distant. Good sorts, all; he wasn't a judgmental bloke, given all he'd done in life.

Yet when he thought of Meg, he saw her whole: in the present, radiantly colored, face cheerful and laughing.

How, _how_ did a ballet star of the Paris Opera House remain so damned unaffected? Unglamorous, really!

Unglamorous but endearing, adorable….

Meg, meanwhile, eyed him with curiosity. He'd annoyed her in the past with his arrogance and mocking ways, but his skill and helpfulness had softened her outlook toward him. She'd never seen him so…ill at ease, however. She was used to seeing him suave and detached. Now, now he was chewing his bottom lip and drumming his fingers together behind his back, eyes wide and staring at anything but her as they strolled the sidewalk.

Meg made a few rudimentary comments about the weather. He hummed in acknowledgement. She mentioned a humorous column she'd read about one of the Count's failed peccadillos that had come to light since his arrest, concerning a rich older widow he'd courted whose poodle showed his disdain by leaving something for the Count in his slippers. Marcus hummed again.

At her wit's end, Meg at last cut to the chase. "I say, Monsieur Marcus. It's a bit odd to ask someone on a walk to talk something over, then offer nothing but the occasional assenting noise. Don't you think?"

Her bluntness seemed to relax him. He laughed. He shot gleaming blue-green eyes at her, which surprisingly took her breath away a little.

"Do you know what I like about you, Miss Giry?"

"No, what?"

"You are without a doubt the most candid, straightforward little pill I've ever met."

She bristled. "'Little pill?' Why, I" –

He laughed again and took her small gloved hands in his. Despite his amused smile, his voice was so serious and low she shivered. "Don't be mad at me, Miss Giry. Not now. Do you really want to know what I've come to tell you?"

"Yes!"

"Well, more to the point, what I've come to _ask_ you."

Some faint intuition stirred in her breast, causing her heart to beat erratically. "…Yes?"

All amusement faded and what was left was something she never expected to see on his face: lost anxiety. "Will you marry me?"

Her eyes were wide-open circles. Her mouth hanged open.

She - _she_ \- received a marriage proposal? From _him_?

It was like the Vicomte de Valmont asking for her hand!

She blinked idiotically.

"I'm a rough sort, I will admit," he continued. "Not very tame, and I don't expect I ever will be. Never had much stability in my life, or had much want of it. But I'm also the sort who takes what he wants. And I want you." Very softly he added, "I love you."

Meg felt warm all over. Butterflies weren't in her stomach, giant frogs were kicking there instead.

She looked at his beautiful eyes, his crooked nose, his broad shoulders, and his thick dark hair.

She'd never felt so deeply flattered in all her life - outside of her recent theatrical reviews.

To bring a man so different from her – jaded, worldly, and rakish – to such a state was a triumph right next to Monsieur Robard's proud eyes over the conductor's stand.

However, recognizing the gravity written deeply in his features, she felt ashamed of herself for this burst of vanity.

How did…how did she_ feel_ about Stephen Marcus? Beyond her amazement that a man of his type should fancy a little dancing rat like her?

This was the crucial question.

He was argumentative but kind; cynical but heroic, in his own way. A dashing mix of contradictions.

A challenge. A bit of a mystery. Just what Meg always desired in life. She'd simply never considered she'd find it in a man….

In fact, she'd never even thought of herself as a wife!

Thinking of it now brought a dull thud to her racing heart.

A wife. Settling down. A quiet house somewhere with a ball of yarn and making sure supper was ready on time –

Meg shuddered at the image.

When she thought of the future, she saw dancing, encores for enthusiastic crowds, just making the train to tour in different countries. Marriage? That seemed to her a dead end to those dreams.

But Stephen Marcus…he said he wasn't a tame man. Domesticity wasn't apparently his forte, either.

So, yes, maybe….

Suddenly in her mind she saw a glimmer of mask, a sad brown eye, a wild blue eye, and two sinewy hands clutching his deformity in mental agony.

Another mystery, another challenge, but someone she felt she could never lead by hand to redemption, yet she wanted to be present anyway when he did redeem himself.

_Erik. _

She opened and closed her mouth, color gone from her cheeks.

Marcus steeled himself when he saw pain in her eyes.

"I see my proposal is not entirely welcome," he said in a carefully composed voice.

His hope heightened just a bit at the touch of tenderness in her eyes now. "I…it's not that! I simply don't know what to say."

He opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped him, lightly touching his wrist. "Wait, please. Let me think." She breathed in, then continued. "I'm not ready for marriage yet, monsieur. I've no doubt any such marriage with you would be…fun," a mischievous small smile appeared on her face. "But it's still not something I can bind myself to yet."

He'd never begged a woman before, and he wasn't planning to now, yet he couldn't help but press – "But someday, maybe? In the future? You might…consider me?"

He would remember that dreamy, matter-of-fact little gaze she gave him for the rest of his life. "I don't know, monsieur. I truly don't know."

A breeze stirred them.

From the terrace above, Erik watched behind the gargoyle as Marcus inclined his head with a rueful smile. Meg put her hand in his arm and they turned to go back inside.

_How history almost repeats itself,_ he thought with self-loathing. Here he was, perched behind a gargoyle again, listening in on every word between the woman he obsessed over and her admirer.

There was such a great difference here, however. With Christine and Raoul, the heartbreak had been severe, yes, but there was a touch of poetry about it, too – a kind of martyred grandeur. He'd had rage and a misplaced sense of betrayal to comfort him.

Now – now the pain was plain and fierce, with no self-righteous indignation to soften the blow. As Marcus proposed and Meg considered, he could scarcely breathe. With his feelings for Meg still so unsure aside from his obvious infatuation, this proposal was like an added gale of wind to a ship already caught in a whirlpool.

Meg and another man –

There was a queasiness to the idea. Little Meg. Of the quick dainty steps, frank courage, and untamed curiosity: that little Meg.

Where he could barely stand seeing Christine in the vicomte's arms, his stomach turned at the mere thought of Meg in the same position.

Her tentative refusal did little to abate the sensation; if anything, he was on tenterhooks more than ever. Unlike how he first handled Christine's relationship with Raoul, Erik knew he must accept the inevitable should Meg say yes to Marcus. He'd simply have to. The idea of terrorizing her as he did Christine left him with a terrible taste in his mouth.

Not that Meg deserved better than Christine, he was quick to assure himself. Christine with her angelic compassion had simply shown him that was not the way, and Meg's happy comfort with him _as he was_ made him loathe to betray that confidence even more than when he betrayed Christine's with the phony angel persona.

So if she had said yes, he would force himself to swallow the bitter pill.

However, as it stood now –

The uncertainty was brutal.

Would she ever accept Marcus? Tomorrow, years from now? Or never? Would Erik ever be able to rest from the worry?

If she'd said yes it would have been like burning off a wound: searing and hellish, but quick and clean.

This way it was like an untreated laceration that would fester until he might just succumb to the slow anguish.

* * *

**A/N:** I must admit the shameful truth that I have not read the _Rougon-Macquart _stories. When I looked up popular French serials from that time, this particular story sounded just up Meg's alley, that's all. Maybe I'll look into actually reading it soon._  
_


	46. Chapter 46

Another new year came. The masquerade ball was more subdued compared to previous years, in honor of Piangi's passing and the apparent death or final disappearance of the opera ghost.

Meg and Justine were ecstatic, however; as a late Christmas present (or more appropriately, a publicity stunt to make the event more festive), the managers announced that Meg would star in the next production of _Gisele _and Justine as Madame de Lafayette in the Populaire's first opera since _Don Juan Triumphant._

Meg, dressed as some odd mix between a bird and a princess, and Justine, dressed as the queen of the night, were underneath young giddy girls as they inelegantly jumped up and down shrieking, holding each other's hands.

The two performed their roles on alternating nights. They saw more of each other this way, and their friendship deepened. When they were not rehearsing, they helped Cecile prepare for her wedding to Adele's brother Michel.

Meg had very few free moments now. _Gisele_ proved just as popular as _La Belle et La Bete_, and Meg's fame only grew.

A substantial pay raise soon followed. A month after, Meg approached her mother, stars dancing in her eyes.

"I've been speaking with David Perrin. His brother-in-law's in real estate. He's found us our own little house in the center of Paris!"

Madame Giry paled slightly. "Meg…."

Her daughter wouldn't let her finish, clutching her hands. "Mother, don't stop me. We can afford it now. Our own home!"

At her mother's sad look, Meg hurried to reassure her. "Oh, I didn't mean it like that! Our quarters here have indeed been my home, my true home! But…I just…."

Madame Giry looked at her daughter's eager, earnest face and understood. And she could deny her Meg nothing.

Their new home was small and neat, but fashionable. Most importantly to Meg, they were close to a grate that led to the sewers. It did not smell too terrible to go under, and it was a way Erik could still come and see them….

Erik who grew quiet and melancholy at the mention of their moving.

That was not the only worry Meg had.

With her growing popularity in society, the secret police focused on her all the more.

Meg was conflicted. Although part of her had naively hoped that her first success was enough to pay Erik and the Girys' combined debt to society, another part of her was excited the police still wanted her prepped for future assignments.

They glommed onto her growing fame. To them, her popularity potentially opened up future avenues in society if they needed an extra pair of eyes.

However, there was one improvement Meg needed to make: her fashion sense.

Thus, the police sent her Valérie Li.

Like Meg, Valérie came from mixed parentage: her father, a Chinese diplomat, and her mother, the French daughter of the ambassador receiving the diplomat, caused quite the scandal when they eloped. She grew up in Switzerland, a bright student who learned from her parents' knees how to navigate societies in different cultures.

She was a Renaissance woman through and through: acting, singing, archery, fencing, and most of all, fashion. She opened up the most popular boutique in Paris – which also served as a front for Darius and his men.

Despite the risk, Meg convinced the police to allow Valérie's first visit to coincide with Cecile, Adele, and Justine gathering at the Giry house to go over potential wedding dress designs. "She can help us design Cecile's gown!"

With a collective groan, the crew at headquarters at last relented.

It was with a faintly skipping heart Meg hurried to answer the door the morning of Valérie's appointment. Behind her, even her friends self-consciously smoothed their skirts.

Meg opened the door to a radiant Valérie dressed in magenta silk. She curtseyed like a queen, but with a friendly sardonic smirk that made her charmingly casual. "You've grown, my little Giry!" Valérie chuckled, taking her in.

Meg blushed scarlet, pleased.

Now thirty-two, Valérie Li remained the most beautiful woman Meg had ever seen since the spy sang briefly on the Paris Opera stage as a contralto seven years before. She had thick chestnut hair and a beautiful direct gaze, with high cheekbones and full lips. Meg wondered briefly why Erik had never fallen for _her – _then realized there was nothing naïve or vulnerable about Valérie's striking beauty, her direct teal eyes and steady expression. The moment you saw her, you felt her self-sufficiency, her easy independence.

Thus, there was no way the Angel could get inside her mind.

Meg wondered what that said about Erik. Did he not value independent women…? Not that Christine wasn't independent. But she'd been so vulnerable then!

She shook away the thought and welcomed Valérie inside.

"You remember Cecile Jammes, Adele Segal, and Justine Laurent?"

Valérie inclined her head regally to each girl. She smiled especially at Cecile. "Is this our blushing bride?"

Adele kicked gently at Cecile's ankle, giggling. "I am," Cecile said happily, elbowing Adele.

Cecile and Michel's courtship had been a whirlwind one, but grounded by genuine respect and love. Her earnestly sweet and ladylike demeanor proved a wonderful complement to Michel Segal, who shared his sister's clownish and frivolous side, with an added flourish of passion.

Cecile was supremely happy with her decision, much as she teased her intended.

Valérie was the type of woman to get right down to business. She hadn't even finished removing her gloves when she said, "Show me the samples you've brought. I'll see what we can come up with."

"Well, I can't decide between the lace collar and the silk," Cecile began, tentatively showing her the scraps of material she'd brought with her.

As Valérie busied herself studying them and Cecile and Adele leaned closer to get a better look, Justine edged toward Meg and whispered.

"How times have changed! A year ago, could you imagine our group of sundry chorus dancers and singers gathered in a fashionable spot in Paris with the queen of boutiques at our attendance?"

Meg shook her head, grinning widely. "Isn't it marvelous?" Her green-gray eyes flashed. What good was success if you didn't enjoy it? She squeezed Justine's hand.

Meanwhile, the soprano tried to keep the mist out of her eyes as she watched pretty young Cecile prepare for her wedding.

No, this would never be for Justine, she told herself. But that didn't mean she had to be jealous or put out by the fact.

She enjoyed her friendship with the dancers and she loved her work. She was relieved the positive notes she received as Adrienne mostly ignored her weight.

Yet still she pined for more, and she resented herself for pining.

At last the hour came when Cecile had to leave to meet potential florists. "Are you sure you can't come, Meg?"

"Unfortunately not. I'm afraid I double-booked myself. Mademoiselle Li is going to help improve my own middling fashion tastes."

Kissing each girl on the cheek goodbye, Meg closed the door on them and drawing a breath, turned around.

She was relieved Valérie still looked at her with light-hearted fondness. Her easy friendliness was luckily not some front she put on for civilians. She laughed good-naturedly at the young dancer.

"My dear, I've been thinking about you ever since the papers published that picture spread of you from_ La Belle et La Bete_. I think a modified look of what you wore there – romantic, classic, yet youthfully feminine – is in order."

Her eyebrows raised expectantly as a carriage arrived outside. "Ah! Here are some of my selections now. Let's see what you think, eh?"

A bit flummoxed, Meg answered the door to Darius, who wore a bemused smirk on his face. "Compliments of the force, young lady."

Pushing past him were three young ladies carrying heap upon heap of skirts, wigs, and dress samples.

Meg swallowed her excited smile. All trace of nerves and embarrassment vanished, and in their place was now a giddy anticipation.

Pink! She still saw pink in those swatches….

Still, she was not so taken up with the various fabrics parading by that the keen girl did not notice the flirtatious bounce to Valérie's movements as she sashayed up to the quietly observing Darius.

"My good Monsieur Shahzad. You are looking austere as always." Her eyes sparkled.

Meg almost giggled. Was that a…_blush_ that crossed Darius's vaguely annoyed face?

He cleared his throat. "And you just as lovely but intrusive."

Instead of taking offense, Valerie laughed heartily, a charmingly ungraceful sound that contrasted prettily with her refined beauty. "One of these days, monsieur. One of these days I'll see you crack a true smile."

She gently touched his shoulder.

She floated away and resumed assisting her dressers as Meg had to hold back another burst of delighted laughter: Darius was practically gaping!

_These two must have some sort of history._

As always, Meg's heart pounded with the idea of witnessing another great romance.

Valérie, however, was despite her carefree demeanor a strict taskmaster. She quickly immersed the dancer in a world of silk, taffeta, and hairpins.

From that day forward, Meg wore a greatly revised wardrobe. Not only did she appear in artistic columns and theatrical reviews, but in fashion notices as well.

Nothing before had ever so shocked her mother and the opera ghost.

Erik had always scoffed at the little Giry's fashion sense, at the surplus flounces of brightly colored ribbons, the childlike, coquettish pinks and frills, at the way the full skirts threatened to swallow her whole. He privately compared her flamboyant get-up to the sedate, modest blues and grays Christine had worn in her casual wear, the muted patterns still rich with satin, signifying she was of good class—but not giddy-headed enough to flaunt it.

Yet Meg could not be shamed. She _liked _pink, she _liked_ detailed patterns of teacup flowers, polka dots, and brocaded ribbon on the hem. Other than her dancer-like movements offstage even, there was no evidence needed of her theatrical upbringing than her instinctive comfort in dresses that came nearer to ballet costumes than a simple house dress. Eventually Valérie succeeded in shortening her skirts to an appropriate length for her petite height, which inadvertently increased the resemblance to her costumes in such pieces as _Il Muto_ or _La Belle et La Bete_.

Still, drastic improvements _were_ made. Valerie suggested she stop curling her hair quite so tightly at night. Unlike Christine's hair, Meg's was not a natural nest of curls. Her hair was naturally more wavy, curling mostly at the ends. Valerie urged her to emphasize the waves rather than the curls.

This smoother, wavier look, often tied in a loose bun at the nape of Meg's neck, was quickly copied by girls around Paris. In point of fact, its unofficial name became "La Petite Giry" – a phrase uttered commonly in hair salons by teenage girls.

Meg would giggle and say it was all very silly, yet on one of Erik's visits he noticed the girl preening in the drawing room. There was a look of vain satisfaction on her face so lacking in meanness or ego that he couldn't help but smile wistfully at her pleasure.

* * *

Erik felt both despair and relief when he learned Meg and her mother were moving out of the opera house. On the one hand, he felt a strange panic at the thought of her away from where he could keep an eye on her, watch from the rafters.

On the other, maybe now he could unlearn the crushing affection and desire he felt every time her strawberry blonde mane and quick steps alerted him to her presence.

Yet Meg, the little nit, would not let him be.

Not a full day had passed after she moved when he found an envelope in Box Five for him. Inside was an invitation to a private housewarming dinner.

He damned his weakness. He attended.

Now every week there was an envelope.

And every week he attended, emerging from the tunnels underground, like a dark Mephistopheles rising from the depths.

Like his earlier calls at their flat, he first tried to play his visits off as inquiries as to whether or not the police had any more work for them (their silence _did _fill him with unease – he knew, deep down, that they were not content to allow a murderer to lurk indefinitely in the cellars beneath the opera house without putting him to work).

But also like his visits before, eventually he ceased providing excuses and simply slunk in, as if guilty of another crime, darker even than murder.

He avoided Anahid's heavy gaze. He lost himself in Meg's innocent chatter.

One day he attended a brunch Meg put on just for him and her mother.

His heart couldn't help tug watching her neatly play hostess. She prattled on, gracefully plopping sugar cubes in cups with the sincere excitement of a little girl playing tea party.

_If she could only stay this way forever…ah, I could die happy._

But the dark cloud of the police, of the demands of fame hovered over this sunny image in Erik's mind.

However, looking into her hard bright eyes, he felt reassured. There in her eyes was everything intractable within her: self-possession, fairness, common sense. Sanity.

Still his heart jumped when their maid came in with a letter for Miss Giry, and he saw her face tighten up like a flower closing in at night.

Something in the address made her excited or agitated, he couldn't tell.

Madame Giry had spied the seal and swiftly asked Erik his opinion of the ballet's current choreography.

Erik answered her smoothly, but his eyes kept roving back to Meg.

He couldn't read her as she took in the letter.

_Was it from Marcus?_

The agent still frequented the house, this Erik knew. The man had a darker, more melancholy look about him these days, which comforted Erik. She at least still hadn't said yes, obviously. But his apparent consternation was evidence he still sought her hand. No man would look so strained without a burning affection beneath.

What would come of this galling and unpleasant situation? This question often kept Erik awake at night.

At last she put the letter aside, hiding the envelope, and faced Erik with a renewed brightness in her expression. "What was that you were saying? You think the chorus enters too fast in Act III?"

No more was said of the note. Erik tried to make himself forget it.

Yet he couldn't stop himself from suspecting the contents of the letter three days later as he stood dumb in the Girys' entryway.

She was leaving on vacation. By herself. For an unknown amount of time.

He hissed at Anahid as Meg made sure she had everything she needed in the few bags she was taking. "What is it? Another assignment?"

"Erik" –

"Why aren't I involved? Who's going to look after her?"

"How do you even know it's another assignment? I haven't said that. Meg hasn't said that." The woman was damnably opaque.

"But to let her go off alone" –

"Mother, have you seen my mauve shawl?" Meg called from the drawing room.

Madame Giry gave Erik a small mysterious smile. "Everyone deserves a break, Erik. That's all that Meg is doing." She addressed her daughter, "I believe it's tucked away beneath your linens, dear…."

Erik could only flex his hands, unreasonably agitated.

When he offered to take her to the train station, alarm flashed briefly in her eyes. She blushed and made herself smile. "No, no, monsieur. I wouldn't hear of it. Pierre from the opera stables is taking me, I'll be fine."

Pure warmth radiating from her expression, she placed a light hand on his chest and she stood up on her tiptoes to kiss him once again, this time on his unblemished cheek (he was sure to wear his mask tonight).

He closed his eyes, almost crying at the soft feel of her lips on his wretched skin. _This forever will be a foreign experience. I will never grow accustomed to it._

"Goodbye, Monsieur Erik. 'Hold the fort' for me while I'm away, as the Americans say."

She giggled with her usual sprightliness, cheeks dimpled.

Ever the graceful bird, she flew out the door.

Erik watched until the carriage pulled away.

Anahid watched him watching her daughter.

* * *

**A/N:** I've based Valérie Li's appearance on Mylène Jampanoï, an incredibly beautiful and talented French actress.

For Meg's new hairstyle, I took a little inspiration from Lucy's hair in Tim Burton's Sweeney Todd. That general style.

Speaking of Megs, I see Cecile as sort of the Meg March of the ballet girls: prim, ladylike, but headstrong and romantic. Just throwing that out there.


	47. Chapter 47

**A/N**: This is a short but hopefully sweet one!

* * *

The next morning Erik sat at his pipe organ, inspiration for his latest piece gone.

He knew somehow that he would not write today. He would not play.

His heart was too full and at the same time staggeringly empty.

Meg's absence frightened him; he was so used to looking after her. She left him with nothing.

A sudden burst of fury made him strike his keys with a balled fist, causing them to cry out in sharp protest.

"What have I become?" He snarled aloud.

He sighed and closed his eyes.

_Christine. He must think of Christine._

He wondered why he should feel such guilt and self-loathing at wanting one girl when before he'd created a whole fantasy world around his infatuation with Christine.

Were his emotions evidence of his lack of respect for Christine, or Meg?

He shuddered away from the thought.

No. He respected them both. He revered Christine.

And Meg –

Meg.

He tried so desperately not to think of her.

Every time he closed his eyes, every time he tried to turn his thoughts elsewhere, he'd still see her bright hair, hear her tiny breathy voice, see that curious light in her eyes.

And his heart would fill and warm with something frighteningly close to joy.

_Christine. Christine. Think of Christine. _

He still heard her voice. He would always hear her voice. But somehow quite slowly something changed. Instead of cherishing that haunting voice as a lover does his true love's song, he now appreciated it with the distant devotion a parishioner has for a hymn in church.

It was love still, surely, but…the romance, the passion…was it still there?

Yes, of course it was, he assured himself hastily. But –

But then why, whenever he tried to focus on her image in his mind's eye, to clearly hear her voice sing an entire aria rather than just faintly hear her in the back of his brain, did he instead see a flurrying figure in a white tutu? Why did he hear a whisper of a voice rapidly reading aloud a serial?

He struggled to gaze again at the luminous moon, but the bright sun was in the corner, blocking his sight.

Another strike of his fist on the organ's keys. He relished the harsh, disharmonious sound. What better demonstration of his wicked, contrasting feelings?

He was not in love with Meg Giry. He was not. Christine owned his heart. Only Christine.

Forget the fact that when he thought this, he felt no leap of fire. Only a gentle melancholy.

Thoughts of Meg….

Thoughts of Meg always brought fire. Often an irritating and intrusive fire, but fire nonetheless.

Agitated, he rose from the bench and paced his lair.

How dull and dark and plain it was, compared to the cozy Giry home, the hint of cherry blossoms outside the dining room window.

He once convinced himself – and tried to convince Christine - that this lair was a mystical kingdom far removed from and superior to the garish, bright, painfully ordinary lives and dwellings above the surface.

Yet now, ever since Meg kissed his deformed cheek as if he were anyone, how his perspective changed. He felt a terrible secret yearning for a permanent place at her table. For a house of his own, and a wife he could take out on Sundays. A pretty little wife reading aloud a serial, as he sat beside her near the fire. Just like anybody else….

But no. No. He was Erik. The Phantom of the Opera. He refused to be like anybody else. If he could not have the grandeur of the king, with his beautiful siren queen at his side, he would have nothing at all except despair.

Nothing is more poetic than tragedy in the wake of lost love. Erik always strove for poetry as the backdrop to his life, the comfort to his pain.

He stopped in front of a vase on one of his end tables. On Meg's last visit she'd filled it with yellow roses. They stood out starkly in the blackness of his lair. He…he wondered if she knew he'd been the one to leave the rose for her after _La Belle et La Bete's_ opening night.

_Of course she knows, you fool. Who else would have?_

He damned his foolhardy act that could be interpreted as romantic. What must the girl be thinking?

Would she like the idea, or be disgusted by it…?

He disgusted himself for even wondering.

Scarcely aware of his own actions, he reached out and gently caressed the petals of one rose between his fingertips.

Yellow roses...according to folk superstition, yellow roses symbolized infidelity. And wasn't that appropriate when it came to him and Meg? Erik had pledged his love to Christine forever, and yet now, in spite of his vows, he felt inexplicably drawn to the little dancer. He felt unfaithful to Christine, though she would never claim his love. Never.

Jealousy was another trait associated with the yellow rose.

_Stephen Marcus._

Rage similar to what he once felt for the vicomte burned in his chest. However, now there was the added nausea of uncertainty, of not knowing where Meg stood with the officer. That plus the uncertainty of how he even felt for the wild young girl made Erik feel sure he was about to go out of his mind.

As he absently studied the rose's petals, he thought of that Persian orchard again.

He remembered what yellow roses often symbolized in the East: strength. Wisdom. Joy.

He saw her flowing golden-red hair, so close to the rose's color. He saw her eyes.

He picked up the rose he'd been fondling and unconsciously held it to his heart.

Infidelity, jealousy, strength, wisdom, joy.

Yes, all these and more encapsulated how he felt about Meg.

No wonder his knees were weak, no wonder he felt himself in a constant state of almost-panic.

And above it all right now, one emotion more gnawing and aggravating than the rest:

Worry.

She'd left Paris for an unknown destination all on her own.

_Where are you, Meg?_

He squeezed the flower tighter.

_Where are you?_


	48. Chapter 48

Christine stared out her bedroom window. Their home was right by the river, and beyond she could see the domed and spiraling rooftops that made up the majority of homes in Uppsala. Beyond them were the lush green hills she remembered most vividly from her childhood with her father and mother.

She smiled contentedly to herself. Raoul would be home soon.

He'd advanced with surprising speed in the ranks of the police force. Against his expectations, the commissioner in Paris came through with a glowing reference; which, combined with Uppsala's commissioner taking a shine to the charismatic and talented young man, placed him in an enviable position. He was now the commissioner's personal secretary, and in a year's time was expected to undergo training for deputy.

Their home was not large or fashionable, but it was comfortable and well-kept. Raoul in his enthusiasm had ensured that whomever passed the house would be able to tell right away the house's dwellers were foreign; its design was too self-consciously classical Swedish in design, with its garrets and gables.

Still, Christine felt such a homey cheer whenever she was within the walls. Their three massive, rambunctious, good-natured dogs loped about outside in the yard, barking happily at people, animals, and leaves.

_Home. Yes. This, this is home._

Paris was never hers, never truly. Perros-Guirec was a beautiful dream.

But this, the solid Swedish earth with the brisk winter winds and endless rolling hills, this is where her blood flowed and called out _home home home._

She smiled into the twilight sky outside her window.

However, a slight shade fell on her good mood. A carriage arrived outside.

Raoul's sisters and their friends were back from their outing to the park.

Christine had only escaped accompanying them by claiming she did not feel well, something easily believable in her condition.

She instinctively placed a protective hand on her protruding stomach beneath the dress she'd had to let out as the months passed and her condition expanded her waistline.

Anxiety pricked the back of her neck like nettles.

Poor panicky Roberte had finally succeeded in thawing Laverne just enough to open back up a relationship with their brother – only when Laverne heard of Christine's pregnancy.

"It also helps that after talking to our various attorneys, she realized she couldn't actually disinherit me," Raoul added bitterly when they'd received her polite but coldly formal letter of forgiveness and intention to visit.

"Raoul," Christine had said nervously, "I've never even met your sisters, and here they are bringing a houseful of guests to come see me, in my condition?"

She'd not had the easiest pregnancy. Morning, afternoon, and evening sickness plagued her. Her doctor recommended bed rest intermittently, and she wasn't gaining as much weight as she should. On top of that, Raoul's sisters….

"If you don't want them here, just tell me," Raoul said quickly, a fierce fire in his eyes. His hand was tight on hers.

Her heart warmed at his vehemence, but she knew she couldn't stand in the way of this reconciliation. And Raoul…Raoul needed to learn to let her fight her own battles a little. And she needed to learn that, too.

Theirs was a peaceful, tranquil union, but conflict arose when Christine's melancholia reared its head. She was generally a happy woman, but even so, there were nights, mornings, when a thick fog would descend on her, and she could barely find the energy to get out of bed, much less smile or enjoy herself.

Raoul was only slowly learning how to cope with this. At first he'd been too proactive, too eager to clear this fog for her with his own two hands. He'd burst in with a new sunhat for her, announcing, "We're off for a walk!" Or he'd bring in Mountebank, their large Newfoundland mix, and claim, "Look here! I taught him how to stand on his hind legs!"

At last, Christine snapped. "Raoul, stop! I don't just want to be alone, I _need _to be alone. Leave me be!"

Raoul stilled. Her face was red. He'd never seen her so angry.

Without a word, he'd turned and walked out the house.

By the time he came back late at night, both were more than eager to make up.

Christine sobbed in his arms. "I'm such – such a wreck! Such a cruel wife! You were only trying to cheer me up, and I" –

"Shh, shh," Raoul comforted her, patting her back. "Nonsense, love. I just – I just don't know what to do." He swept the damp curls from her wet cheeks and stared her steadily in the eyes. "Please, tell me what to do."

Christine's heart hurt. She'd never seen the look of a confused little boy in her self-assured husband's eyes before.

She finally shook her head, shrugging. "My love, there's nothing you _can_ do. Space truly is what I need. These moods of mine…" She exhaled. "These moods of mine will pass."

She could see the 'take-charge' vitality within him rise up. "But I" –

She placed a soft hand on his mouth. "Please. I'm not rejecting you. Lord knows I still need your help. But…trust me on this."

Breathing in, he nodded.

He still struggled holding back his savior complex, and she still struggled articulating what she needed. They were getting there, however.

But now –

Laverne, Roberte, and their society friends had taken residence in their relatively small home for three weeks now.

Christine closed her eyes and cringed at the familiar sharp rap on her bedroom door.

_I stood up to La Carlotta and the infamous Opera Ghost, I can face a couple of old ladies_, she repeated to herself.

She opened her door to queenly Laverne and hesitant Roberte behind her.

Laverne immediately had Christine's chin in her cold hand and twisted her face softly, this way and that. "Hm. You're still pale, my dear."

Christine had noticed the instant she met Laverne that the older woman had a way of speaking to her with her head leaned back, literally looking down her nose at her. It was as if she had a physical distaste for the Jewish former singer, and this was the only way she could manage interacting with her.

Christine was too tired, both physically and emotionally, to put up much of a fight, as much as she loathed this manifestation of bigotry. "Yes, I'm still feeling rather low."

"Oh, poor dear, poor dear," Roberte said in that high-pitched baby voice that always set Christine's teeth on edge. Roberte was obviously far kinder and more flexible than her sister, but she had such a patronizing fluttering away about her that drove Christine close to madness.

She thanked every deity she could think of when Laverne crisply announced, "You need more rest. You get right in that bed. I'll play the hostess at dinner tonight."

"Thank you, Laverne. I hate to miss dinner with you all, but maybe you're right." Christine swallowed her smile of relief.

As a sneering afterthought, Laverne pat Christine's cheek quickly. "I will inform Raoul when he comes home." She turned and left.

"I'll have dinner sent up to you, dear heart," Roberte said, patting Christine's hand like a child. "Madame Durand has bought us the most delicious duck! I'll make sure to soak it in broth for you."

Flopping away like a hen, she left Christine after the expectant mother murmured her thank yous.

Sighing, Christine collapsed on her bed, staring at her ceiling.

Would they never leave?

Some of the first words out of Laverne's mouth upon arriving was her intention to stay long enough to see Christine and the child "settled." Whatever that meant to her.

Loneliness Christine hadn't felt since her father's death washed over her.

Raoul was her greatest comfort, but he couldn't be around her all the time with his work load, and Christine couldn't confide in the ladies Laverne and Roberte brought with them. They all looked upon her in the same cold, patronizing light as the sisters.

Christine desperately missed someone she _could _confide in, to moan about her pregnancy with in ways she truly couldn't with Raoul, open-minded as he was.

She needed –

She knew whom she needed, but that was impossible.

That person was off in Paris, leading a fantastical career, alongside –

Alongside –

She shivered and a faint nausea returned to her.

Alongside the Phantom of the Opera.

Yes, she still heard the Angel's voice sing softly to her, when the sun lowered in the evening.

The Angel. Erik, his name was.

Did she miss him? Yes, but it was the _Angel_ she missed – the man was never meant to be in her life.

But that other little figure she thought of, with her inquisitive sharp looks and wide smiles…yes, Christine longed for that friend by her side now.

They maintained a steady correspondence, but Christine could never quite capture in written word all that was whirling around in her: anxiety and excitement at the idea of motherhood, her irritation with Raoul's family, her periodic melancholy. Her letters read to her like dull reports instead of anything close to the intimacy she craved to share.

If she could just see that kindly, sprightly face again, she knew the words she was searching for would erupt to the surface…

Christine perked up as the dogs barked anew and she heard the crunch of gravel outside. Another carriage. Raoul!

Smoothing her gown, she peeked out the window. It was too dark to see anything, but she believed she saw Raoul, and he was ferrying in another figure. Oh, good lord, had another friend of Laverne and Roberte's arrived? She couldn't take it, she just couldn't take it.

Overcome with that fiery temper that came with her pregnancy, Christine marched back to her bed and turned angrily from the door. Even though rationally she knew Raoul was not to blame, that it was she herself who'd talked him round to letting Laverne and Roberte come, right now she petulantly did blame him. He should have known she was up to here with guests, so to add another –

A knock on the door.

She leaned her head back, swallowing another groan. "Who is it?" She asked in a reedy voice.

An unfamiliar feminine voice with a thick foreign accent called, "Your soup, Madame! Madame Roberte sent me!"

Christine frowned, truly angry now. So, they were hiring new maids without consulting her now, were they?

She'd show them.

Christine strode angrily to the door and opened it.

Her mouth dropped and her eyes widened.

The smiling face in front of her stuck her tongue out and curtseyed, holding up the tray of soup, a large bouquet of flowers tucked between her arm and ribcage.

"_Meg!"_

"Christine!"

The two friends laughed and shrieked. Anyone seeing Christine moments before would have thought her brought back to life by magic. Meg clumsily set the soup down sloshing on its tray, and they embraced through the now crushed flowers, which were then flung absently on the bed.

"You've come!" Christine choked out ecstatically though her tears of gladness.

Meg laughed fondly. "Oh, don't cry, Christine!" She brushed her friend's tears away. "That clever husband of yours arranged it with me in secret to surprise you. He sent me up with the soup."

She took Christine's hands and looked her over, marveling. "It's true, it's really true! You're going to be a mother!"

Christine giggled. "Did you think I'd fibbed in my letters?"

"It's one thing to read it in a letter, but to see it…."

Christine blushed and looked her friend over in return. Meg looked…Meg looked so _different_. Of course, that sunny, youthful look of tranquil liveliness about her sweet features was ever unchanging. But her dress, her hair! Where were the thick bouncing curls and girlish ribbons? The tutu and ballet slippers had been traded in for a silk traveling gown of deep aubergine with gold jacket, and that bright mane was swept softly up beneath a smart black velvet hat with purple feather.

_She has indeed been taken under Mademoiselle Li's tutelage, _Christine thought, biting her lip. She looked down at her own swelling stomach and dressing gown. "I look a fright, I'm sure," she mumbled self-consciously.

"Rubbish!" Meg said, meaning it. Christine was obviously exhausted, and she was very pale. Dark blue circled the bottoms of her eyes. However, there was a soft radiance about her fuller face, her slender hands on her stomach, that made her more beautiful than Meg had ever seen her. "You look like a dream."

They embraced again.

Reality returned to Christine through her relieved wave of excitement. "Raoul sent for you, you say?"

"Mm-hmm," Meg said, taking off her hat. "He wrote me that you might need one of your own friends by your side right now, not one of his sisters' friends."

The dancer noted the look of blissful gratitude on her friend's face.

"Have they all really been so awful?" Meg whispered.

Christine blushed. "Well…yes and no. They mean well, I'm sure, but they're all so…distant yet intrusive at the same time! And the way they all sit and look at me, as if they know, just_ know_ that any second I'm going to reveal I'm nothing but a low-class chit. Like I'll cuss or get drunk or something."

Grinning, Christine lightly swatted Meg's arm as the girl giggled.

"I'm sorry, Christine! I'm just trying to picture you of all people cussing and drinking!"

"I know, so am I!"

The girls laughed again. Downstairs Raoul smiled at the sound, carrying from upstairs. He was especially amused by the contrasting grim faces of Laverne and her party at the sound.

Christine laid her head on Meg's shoulder, easily falling back into the role of the understudy dancer seeking comfort. She thought vaguely of that indistinct image of her mother as Meg stroked her curls. "How is everything in Paris?"

Meg heard all the words Christine didn't ask and chose her own words carefully. "Oh, it's fine. _Gisele_'s all wrapped up, and they haven't decided what should come next. Apparently there are a few options the board are mulling over, but it's tricky getting the rights. Cecile is getting married in June. Little Clara just joined the children's ballet. Mother has helped me fix up the new house quite well. The downstairs fireplace is finally fixed." She took a deep breath. "_Everyone else _is well."

Christine closed her eyes. Meg ignored her shiver, letting her work it out for herself.

At last Christine spoke again, in a very small voice. "How long can you stay?"

Meg squeezed her hand. "As long as you need me, Christine."

Christine smiled against her shoulder.

* * *

**A/N: **Short but hopefully sweet! Apologies for the hiatus. I've been busy moving. I'm also adjusting to more hours at my job. So expect more updates, but they might be at random intervals!**  
**


	49. Chapter 49

Meg felt lucky she'd grown up in large crowds, as she'd otherwise drown in the various soirees and endless teas filled with Laverne and Roberte's society friends. However, something about the closer quarters here did make the team of rich matrons in Raoul and Christine's comfortable house a _trifle _unsettling.

She could see why someone naturally shy like Christine would find the atmosphere nigh unbearable.

All in all, though, Meg took it in stride. She grew up only dimly aware of the intricacies inherent in the aristocracy. Her mother made sure to teach her all the proper ranks and titles of the valued patrons in the opera's various audiences, and she was always respectful. But very rarely was she allowed to interact with them; she'd certainly never been taken into their private lives, despite her growing fame and acclaim.

In fact, her success was the very thing that usually precluded her from hobnobbing with the class of genteel old women around her now.

This ignorance kept her blissfully unaware in the weeks of her visit. She felt scarcely self-conscious at all. She flitted about the house as she did at the opera: quickly, blithely, chatty, everywhere at once. She did have the ability to play the wallflower, but Christine and Raoul's guests sensed she only periodically did so to better listen and learn, rather than out of any inherent respect for her betters.

And so they watched her, affronted and fascinated in equal turns. She'd answered their perfunctorily polite requests to see her dance without a trace of modest reticence, jumping up immediately to change into something far more revealing and perform as Christine played at the piano. Her movements were fabulously graceful and breathtaking, but the contrast between her sweet delicate beauty and fiery wanton movements sat strangely with the crowd before her.

Meg hummed now absent-mindedly as she knitted booties by Christine's side, breaking off only to giggle girlishly over some private joke with her friend.

To the fuming Laverne, who sat beside Meg along with Lady de Burgh and Comtesse Marille, this was on paper blatantly disrespectful behavior. For a girl of her class to sit there, giggling, humming, as her betters conversed was at the height of impropriety.

But then Meg raised her laughing, direct face to Laverne and that was what troubled Raoul's sister the most: the lack of mockery, of insolence. The presence instead of good-hearted frankness.

She wasn't what Laverne expected of a famous dancer, more a well-meaning but rambunctious child.

All she could do was sniff in disapproval. Christine shivered in loathing. She was used to that haughty little sound by now.

"Christine, my dear," Laverne said in that lofty tone so characteristic of her, "Should you be sitting so close to the bay windows? The sun is beating down on you terribly."

Christine went red and white at the same time. Meg did not possess the subtlety to detect the reasons behind the emotions of humiliation and frustration reflected in those contrasting shades: frustration at Laverne dictating her every move, and humiliation at her constantly highlighting her fragile state.

Still, though Meg did not understand the emotions now, she understood Christine _felt_ them.

And so Meg thought nothing of saying in her bright tone, "My mother said sunlight did wonders for her when she was carrying me! And this comes from a woman who practically lives in the darkness backstage." Actually Madame Giry never mentioned any such thing to Meg, but who knows, she never said anything to the contrary. It _might _be true!

Laverne stiffened like a scalded cat. This little chit once again failed to even blush or tremble under the shameful weight of her contradiction; no, she had a happy little smile on her face as she nonchalantly returned to her needlework, humming, always humming.

It was the sight of Christine sighing her relief that froze Laverne's blood to its breaking point.

The comtesse was so bravely staunch in her long refusal to acknowledge her brother and his sly wife, but Roberte, damn her, Roberte…she'd worn her down.

Well. Partly.

There was a hidden avenue of true feeling within Laverne. One day she passed by Raoul's childhood bedroom, and that avenue of feeling urged her inside. She stared at the chest of toys, so full that the lid was halfway open, revealing long-neglected sailboats and toy soldiers within.

Instead of the red fury she saw whenever she dwelt on her only living brother, at that moment she saw a laughing, golden-haired little boy in rumpled sailor suit running carelessly around the patio, mimicking the sounds of stormy waves and cawing seagulls as he circled her and moved the sailboat up and down in the air, up and down….

Then she heard about the pregnancy.

That and a few more cringing words from Roberte solidified her new position. She would be beautifully magnanimous. With her stalwart and compassionate example, she would show Raoul all that he'd abandoned. By comparing the society of Laverne and her associates to the low wife he'd wed, she'd punish him far more deeply than stoic isolation.

Perhaps, at least, she could save the child's soul when it was born.

Her conviction wavered only slightly when she met Christine. Instead of some smirking slattern, the girl had the faraway trembling nature of a young doe, sweet, gentle, innocent. Her features were deceptively classical and refined, as if she weren't from a long line of rustic Swedish farmers and grubby Parisian slum-dwellers.

Laverne wanted to hate her for that. Instead she found that impossible. The girl's mournful brown eyes were like a slap in the face – a harsh reproach for all Laverne's assumptions.

This she stamped down, as Laverne stamped down all evidence of her misled life. All right, so she did not hate Christine Daae, but the contempt would stay as active as ever. Instead of cutting her down, she'd condescend to her, make her feel the inferiority of her position.

She'd been doing so splendidly so far. True, Christine had more spine than anticipated, holding her own in her quiet little way. But still, she was enough of a dreamy little thing to not object very strongly to Laverne quite quickly supplanting her in the household.

It was paramount that the child not be born amidst the chaos of a temperamental artist. It must be born amid order, order.

Then the damnable little ballerina came.

In a rush the sedate, quiet aura that Laverne and her trusted friends cultivated exploded in a flurry of girlish activity and high laughter. The grating little sprite was always here or there, always measuring curtains, suggesting garish colors for the wallpaper, buying doll upon gaudy doll for the infant (the dancer was irrationally convinced the child would be a girl), and always whispering something in Christine's ear that brought a conspiratorial grin to the heretofore sullenly obedient girl's face.

Laverne felt betrayed. She didn't dare express her concerns to Raoul. Her brother was still icily formal to her, something that broke certain parts of her heart, but also steeled her. Still, if she wanted to remain and influence the child's rearing, she needed to appease him, not upset him.

And so she sat and waited, hoping upon hope that this dancing doll with her short attention span would tire of respectable company and skip off from whence she came.

And yet here she was in her fancy clothes (far too fashionable and expensive for her surroundings), sitting resolutely at her friend's side.

Laverne's eyes narrowed in on Christine. No matter how soft-spoken the brunette may be, she had caused all this. The dancer would eventually go; Christine, however, must remain if the family wasn't to fall into even more ruin.

She must remember her place, lest she become too fresh with her betters.

And so Laverne spoke in her serenest tones. "Lucille, you mentioned you had a granddaughter who wanted to take up singing?"

As much as Lucille de Burgh was a dreadful bore of a woman, she was equally well-connected. Her sagging lids lifted off her murky eyes with the speed and dexterity of a tortoise. "Oh, yes, yes," she murmured, smiling her fishy unfocused smile. "Little Liza. She already has such a pretty little voice, but she wants to sing at recitals, don't you know. Just needs a little more training."

Laverne gave a sweet majestic smile to Christine. "Why, Christine, dear! _You_ should instruct her."

Meg turned smiling to her friend. Meg felt sure this was a very generous effort on Laverne's part, a nod to Christine's talent. Perhaps they'd be friends now!

Meg's smile faded as she saw the look on her friend's face. The red was gone and she was now completely white. There was an angry grim fire in her eyes.

The gentle chatting among the old ladies continued, but Meg noted Christine never took her cold glare off Laverne.

* * *

"All right, what is it? You're still brooding on what Laverne said, I can tell. What's going on?"

Meg was brushing Christine's hair before bed, just as she used to when they were ballet rats together. The look on Christine's face was quite different from the wide-eyed wistfulness of then. She had the same fiery look of petulance she had before when Laverne had somehow offended her.

Christine stared doggedly into the mirror, nostrils slightly flared. "She insulted me."

Meg was confused. "How? I was there. I don't remember" –

"She asked me to teach one of her friend's children."

"Grandchildren. Really, Christine, what's wrong with that? I thought it was her way of reaching out."

Christine whirled around and the anger was gone but the hurt stared out plainly. "She meant to rub it in my face in front of all her high society friends that I worked for a living. She's – she's implying I'm like a servant to them. Not an equal."

"…Oh."

Christine turned back to her vanity and rested her forehead in her hand.

Meg spoke behind her. "I didn't realize. I mean, if that's her motive, that is quite hateful. But…well…why should you be ashamed you've worked? You should be proud, Christine. You've survived out there in the real would, and they haven't even tried. I think teaching what you've learned would be fantastic."

A soft hand on Christine's shoulder. "Don't you?"

Christine was very quiet. But she lifted her face from her hand and Meg saw a new look of thoughtfulness enter those deep eyes in the mirror.

* * *

The next day Meg sat drinking tea with a few of the ladies. Christine was upstairs resting. Meg fidgeted a little. Now that she hadn't Christine to fuss over, the dancer at last was feeling a little…_awkward_ in this sedate and formal society.

She'd taken a bit to Raoul's second eldest sister, Roberte, so she conversed mostly with her. She was rather a silly old woman, but sweet and not nearly as judgmental as some of her peers.

She was regaling Meg with a story about a friend's disastrous engagement party from twenty years past when Madame de Rombard suddenly said, "Why, Sophie! You know who I just realized our dear Miss Giry reminds me of? Melanie!"

"Melanie Travert? Why, yes! Of course! I'm surprised I didn't see it before."

All eyes were on Meg. She blinked, for the first time a bit shy sitting in the spotlight. "…Oh?" Was all the young girl could think of to say.

Madame Jacqueline de Rombard was a haughty woman but overall rather pleasant. A bit more grounded than some of the other ladies, Meg thought. She looked at Meg speculatively but not unkindly. "You know, she greatly resembles all the Girard sisters, now that I think about it."

Meg's heart stopped at the name. _Girard. Girard._

She cleared her throat, carefully putting down her scone on its little plate. "Who…who are the Girard sisters?" She asked in a thin voice.

Batting herself lazily with her fan, Madame Sophie Linville said in her low drawling voice, "Oh, the three Girard sisters: Collette, Aimee, and Melanie. Dear friends of ours, Miss Giry. They've always been rather noodle-headed excitable little things, but well-meaning. And yes, the resemblance between you and the three is quite marked: the petite frame, the mouth, the face shape. Your hair is redder where theirs are pure yellow, and their eyes are bright blue where yours are that charming greenish shade. They come from an old family of very good standing, though they moved from Paris long, long ago. Too many bad memories. Didn't stop the girls from all marrying quite well, though…"

Madame Celeste Bordelon tittered. She was a sickly little woman with a thin, pruney face. "You and Jacqui keep calling them girls, while Melanie, the youngest, is turning forty this year!"

"What sort of bad memories?" Meg interjected in what she hoped wasn't too eager a tone.

Madame Linville sighed in light regret. "Ah, that eldest child, the brother, Julien."

The room spun around Meg for a moment. She couldn't speak.

The ladies interpreted her pale stony expression as rapt attention, nothing more.

"No one quite knows what happened to him," Madame de Rombard put in.

"That's not true," Madame Linville insisted. "Everyone knows what happened, I'm shocked at you, Jacqui." She looked at Meg. "He was ambassador to Persia some twenty-four, twenty-five years ago, I'm not sure now. Something went wrong and the Persian court betrayed him, the shah sending assassins to kill him." She raised her eyebrows mournfully as she returned to her needlework. "Those monsters wouldn't even send the body home to the Girard family. He'd…had a strained relationship with his parents over the years. Political disagreements and the like. His father was – and is, the old goat still grasps at life – a grim, intractable man. The mother, too, though she's passed since. A pity they never had the chance to reconcile…I'm surprised we didn't go to war over the incident."

"If that _is_ the true story," Madame de Rombard said ambiguously, sipping her tea.

"And what other story could there be?"

The lady shrugged. "Who knows? But the fact remains we have no concrete proof he was killed by assassins, and with his radical leanings…." She shrugged again. "Well, who's to say?" A wistful smile crossed her face. "Ah, but what a handsome man he was. Quite stole my young heart, he did."

Madame Bordelon sneered. "Yes, he was handsome, but quite full of himself, I thought. Always looked like he wanted to be elsewhere."

Madame de Rombard was more forgiving. "Not full of himself. Not really. More…introspective, I should say." She nodded, staring into the distance. "Yes, introspective. I'll wager he never found what he was looking for in France. Maybe in Persia, he did."

Meg did not hear the rest of the conversation.

She had aunts. Aunts and a grandfather.

She looked down at her shimmering turquoise grown and saw her little feet poking out from beneath: attached to her legs, undoubtedly more muscular than her aunts'.

And she felt as disconnected to the Girard family as a wild wolf pup does to a pampered group of Italian Greyhounds lounging on silken pillows.

* * *

Meg tossed and turned that night, sleep escaping her for a long time. When at last she succumbed, she dreamt not of her aunts, her grandfather, or her father. She was in the lair. Pipe organ music filled the dark misty air, but it wasn't the somber tone that usually issued from the underground abode. The tune was filled with something sweet and grand at the same time. It made her so happy to hear it.

She walked slowly toward Erik as he played. Her heart pounded in her head to see him again, even in a dream. His long tapered fingers danced over the keys like she did over the stage.

He wore his mask. Yet Meg did not try to take it away – why should she, when she knew what was underneath, and it bothered her not at all?

Instead she put a small soft hand on his shoulder. He started to turn around. "Meg…."

Her heart leapt.

"Meg…."

She frowned, confused. This voice was deeper than Erik's ethereal tenor –

"Meg, please wake up! It's time!"

She woke with a start. Raoul stood over her with hair mussed, candle in hand. He was in his robe. She heard the tense voices of the servants in the hallway, feet carrying swiftly in different directions.

Raoul's eyes were as wide and harried as one of their overexcited dogs. Meg looked at the clock. It was close to three o'clock in the morning.

She turned back to Raoul. "She wants you. It's – it's" – His smile held both excitement and fear.

Meg smiled, too. She jumped out of bed. "Have you sent for the doctor?"

"Doctor? Doctor! Oh, yes. The maid's gone."

Meg squeezed his hand. "Wonderful! Now let's go soothe the soon-to-be mama's nerves!"

* * *

Gustave de Chagny was born just a few minutes after one o'clock in the afternoon. It was a long labor and tough. At one point Christine had gripped Meg's hand so tightly the dancer would have feared it breaking if she could let in any other emotion besides concern for the sweating, peaked, moaning girl tossing on the bed.

"Meg," Christine croaked as the doctor instructed his nurse, "Meg, am I going to die?"

"Shh, shh," Meg whispered soothingly.

Meg's small cold hand was the only comfort for Christine in that sweltering room amidst blood and sweat.

In the last hour when he heard his wife scream, Raoul scandalized his sisters and their friends anew when he ceased pacing the drawing room and announced, "To hell with convention! I'm going to be with her."

The doctor and nurse frowned, but Christine's husband and friend would not be budged from where they both held each of her hands on opposite sides of the bed.

And now here was Gustave. He was a pale little thing, not quite cute, but already one could see he'd inherited his father's mop of golden hair.

Meg sat beside the bed as Christine, pale herself but smiling beautifully, beautifully, cradled little Gustave to her chest. "You're not too disappointed, are you, Meg?" She asked mischievously. "That you were wrong about the gender?"

Meg laughed. "I'd forgotten! The minute I saw this little fellow I forgot all about it." She kissed Gustave's blond head then leaned her cheek against it. "I love him."

Christine watched her friend, watched how she was with this darling boy in her arms, and the mother decided something. "Bring Raoul in, will you," she asked softly, playing with Meg's wavy locks.

Kissing the baby and her friend one more time, Meg hurried off and soon Raoul entered.

Although Gustave was not even a day old yet, Christine noticed that fatherhood had brought a new solemn sense of wonder to her husband. He kissed his wife deeply, but the two fingers he stroked his son's hair with were more gentle and tentative than a butterfly's wings.

"He's incredible…_you're_ incredible," he said in a thick voice. He kissed her again. "You're feeling well?"

Christine nodded sleepily. "Tired, very tired. And I don't think I'll be up for any fast polska dances in the very near future."

She smiled down at her son. "But I'd say he's worth it."

In truth, Christine's ordeal had left her slightly numb emotionally, so she had as yet to truly take in the warm little bundle in her arms. But beneath the sleepy disorientation she could feel the fierce love there, burning. The fires stoked as the little one yawned.

Named for her father with his father's fair hair and blue eyes.

Mother and father stared quietly at their child, too moved to speak.

At last Christine said, "Raoul, I've been thinking about something. It concerns Meg and the baby…."

* * *

Three weeks later, Laverne was almost smiling in her satisfaction. The child was born and healthy, and looked far more like a de Chagny than she had feared. She would of course be announced as godmother, and so she could come and go freely as she wished, knowing that no matter how many outrageous opera friends Christine had over, Laverne would have final say over who influenced young Gustave.

More importantly at the moment, the Giry girl was leaving.

She was coming down now with her bags, as Raoul helped Christine down and their nurse brought Gustave.

Laverne stood with the few friends who had stayed after the birth. Although she disapproved wildly of the dancer, she would make sure Meg left impressed by the impeccable manners and good breeding of the family who'd hosted her.

Laverne cleverly hid her sneer, watching Roberte stupidly weep as she embraced the blonde. The older woman's idiotic timid heart was won over by the girl's pretty display of niceness during her visit. "Don't worry, I'll be back!" Meg said in her crisp little breathy voice.

_Not if I have my say, little dear, _Laverne thought to herself. Outwardly she only gave Meg a cold smirk and the loosest of handshakes. "Goodbye, Miss Giry. I hope you have an uneventful journey back to Paris."

Meg made a pathetic attempt at a curtsey, lopsided contented grin on her face. "Thank you, Comtesse! Pleasure to meet you all."

As soon as she said it she whirled around and squeezed Christine once more. The new mother had a look on her face that unsettled Laverne: serene, warm…and decided.

Christine's brown eyes followed Meg as impetuously she ran to Gustave and leaned her cheek against his soft head. "I love you, I love you, I love you," the girl whispered again and again to the child in what Laverne thought was an ostentatiously childish show.

Christine looked at Raoul, who nodded with a satisfied smirk of his own.

Christine quite calmly addressed the company around her. "Before my dearest friend leaves, I have an announcement to make."

The room fell quiet except for Gustave's gurgling.

Christine reached out a hand to Meg, eyes laughing affectionately. "Meg Giry, my husband and I have decided that there is no fitter godmother on earth for our little one than you."

Deep, deep silence.

Then Meg shrieked. She quickly covered her mouth, darting her eyes at the baby, who only fidgeted slightly in the nurse's arms.

Then with every inelegance, Meg flew into Christine's arms, the friends laughing into each other's hair.

Raoul's low laughter joined them as he patted Meg on the back. "Congratulations, flibbertigibbet!"

Roberte was not so unwise that she didn't worry about Laverne's reaction. She looked over.

Her sister's face was a white mask drained of all blood. Without taking her cold eyes from the happy trio before her, she said in an even voice to Roberte, "We leave tomorrow."

Turning on her heel, she left the room.


	50. Chapter 50

Meg found there was no word she detested more than _exotic_. Perhaps it was the recent discovery of her Persian heritage, but the word was catching her attention more and more - such as in little fluff pieces they published about her, like the one in _Secrets of the Seine _she read now:

'…_since our most cherished little Giry returned to Paris three months ago after her sojourn in Sweden (visiting her friend Christine Daae, whom our sources report as a new mother), the exotic beauty has quickly reclaimed the spotlight._

'_Here she is at the side of another exotic, the former Cecile Jammes of the ballet corps, now Cecile Segal, at the latter's wedding.'_

Meg did enjoy the picture spread of Cecile's wedding. Her friend looked like a dream in her wedding gown, fitted by none other than Mademoiselle Li.

The article quickly moved on, however, returning her to her state of unease. _'…Miss Giry is well known not only for her dancing, but for her distinct fashion sense and beauty. The last in particular has won her Berlin's title of 'Miss Europe' – the young dancer's unique looks, a reported mix of Spanish or Bulgarian blood, was deemed a perfect mix of European ideals.'_

"Blech," she said, flinging the paper away from her as if it were an unusually large spider. Something about that tone grated on her. _European_…if they only knew. How dare they talk of her like she was some sort of racing horse? She'd put up for years with others objectifying her and the rest of the ballet corps. Even her mother discussed them in terms of muscle, leg, and form with managers and directors. Now that Meg achieved independent fame, she was surprised how much it rankled her to still be discussed in such terms.

Still, 'Miss Europe' had a nice ring to it, she mused. Just as she disliked the scrutiny, she enjoyed the flattery. _Although just what a 'Miss Europe' is supposed to do, I'm sure I have no idea. _She contemplated it a bit then rested her head in her hands on top of her dressing room vanity, bored. Her mother said she'd be another few hours hammering out the latest details for the third act. Meg was playing the lead in _Coppelia_, and although she enjoyed the chance to play comedy, today's rehearsal was overtaken by technical problems, leaving the dancer nothing to do but wait.

She glanced at the clock. It ticked on monotonously. She fiddled with the white gauze covering her pink skirt for the show.

She glanced at the mirror.

She looked way.

Then she leapt to her feet and pulled at the glass.

* * *

As she made the familiar path down the dark twisting catacombs, Meg couldn't help but think about Erik's behavior since her return. He had been avoiding her, she knew it. By now he must have heard about little Gustave. Was he mad at her for hiding the baby's existence? If so, Meg herself felt put out. It was absolutely none of his business! Who was he to judge her actions?

Yet Meg could not quite convince herself it was anger she felt from him. He was more…_watchful,_ and at the same time resistant. When she first saw him after her return, at the dinner she'd invited him to, he inclined his head with his usual courtly grace and offered her a soft, "Welcome home, mademoiselle" (that voice, that voice! It was always in her head now). There'd been no anger then. There was…relief? Contentment?

But now avoidance.

She knocked three times on the trapdoor to his lair, as was her usual custom. She waited a few moments, then smiled as she heard the returning three knocks.

She entered to find him with his back to her. His hands were clenching with some nervous anticipation at his sides.

"I am glad you came, Meg," he said in that same soft tone from the dinner.

Her breath caught in her throat. _He's never used my first name before._

What were these tumbling feelings causing her heart to race, her cheeks to burn?

"I have something to show you," he continued.

"What is it?" She approached with tentative curiosity. "Why won't you turn around?"

"I've been working on something. I'd like your opinion."

He turned. Her heart plummeted.

"Erik," she said weakly.

His face.

It was….

_Normal._

Well, not normal exactly. The other side of his face – the once deformed part – had an uncanny waxy quality when studied closely. At the corner of the eye and the mouth the so-called skin was pulled too taut. He looked as if he'd suffered a small stroke or seizure.

Otherwise this new visage matched the non-deformed side of his face. The once bloated part of his lips was now proportional to the other, the chalk white color of his skin pinker; the deep twisting craters gone (save for faint veiny stretchmarks where they once dwelt). His wig was in place.

His eyes, though. The ice blue one remained. It and the brown watched her now, waiting, waiting.

"Erik," she repeated. In dismay now.

He calmed the blood pumping in his veins. "Well? I adopted your idea." He gestured theatrically to his newly formed face. "A mask to make me look like anyone."

Meg remembered. She swallowed.

His tense posture, hands tight behind his back, gave away his apprehension. "Well? What do you think of it?" His voice was clipped.

She looked like a little dumb doll, all staring eyes and stillness.

"I don't like it."

He felt nothing at first. Then encroaching sorrow.

She could sense that sorrow rumbling beneath his staccato words. "Don't like it? Why? It was your idea."

She tilted her head as she always did, as she always did. "Well, it…" Tilted further. Eyes slit in contemplation.

"Well, it what?"

"It's…not you!"

He barked a laugh. "Of course not! That's the whole idea, mademoiselle!"

"Yes, but…" she struggled to find the words. "It doesn't suit you. Not the true you."

His eyes seemed to vibrate as he soaked in her reaction. Beneath the waxy mask, she could see his brow furrow in anger.

All at once he tore off the mask and hurled it at the ground. _"What more do you want of me?"_

Fury, frustration, and heartbreak warred in his tenor voice. The wig came off as well, and his sparse hair flew in every direction, his deformity particularly gruesome in his hysterical state.

He looked at her through this red haze of emotion. He panted.

She looked like a stunned child.

"I…" She trembled as if some wind chilled her. "I'm sorry," she whispered. She looked almost through him with her large hurting eyes.

She turned back to the trapdoor. She hopped down like a rabbit, shutting the door behind her.

* * *

All through that night Erik sat with his head covered in his hands atop his pipe organ, muffling his screams of indignation and confusion.

What was happening to him, _what was happening to him? _

_You built the mask for her, you dolt. You thought you did it for you, so you could function in society, play the spy better. But it wasn't until you saw her face fall that you realized it was all for HER._

He growled, gripping his scant hair.

He stared at the unsettling scrap of what looked like true human skin beside him on the pipe organ. His new mask. Always he wore a mask. Always he was in a masquerade, no matter what lie he told himself.

He stared at the mask and felt ill.

He threw himself into its constructions in the weeks she'd been gone. Anything to get her out of his mind, his sleep, anything.

Stretch of the alloy here, darkening of the pigmentation there; make more malleable, malleable.

Then she returned.

And the sun seemed to shine again.

For the next few weeks he was too taken up with her return to finish his normal face. Yes, the sun had returned, and it was so bright and overwhelming he could do nothing more than ruminate on her, watch her dance, hear her trill to her friends in lighthearted gossip backstage.

Then word came to him (through eavesdropping on different gossipers) of Christine's child.

Her child.

_Christine._

All the old feeling came back again in a staggering rush. That celestial vulnerable face loomed before him, brown eyes that were by turns despairing and hopeful, and again her voice, her voice.

Christine with a child. Christine as a mother.

And Erik nothing to do with it.

And still there was Meg.

Should he feel betrayed, he wondered. She'd concealed all from him. To spare him, or to spare Christine?

He felt resentment, yet when he looked upon her guileless face, he also struggled with feelings of warmth and sympathy.

Poor strong Meg, caught in a trying conundrum. Sisters in all but blood with Christine, and…associates? Friends?...with Erik.

Yes, a trying situation indeed.

This storm of feeling brought back his resolution to finish the mask. With every adjustment he made, every smoothing of the material, there beat Meg, Meg, Meg.

His fists clenched and his blood cooled when he recalled her reaction.

_How dare she?_

Hypocritical brat. She gave him the idea, and then –

His head shot up. The trapdoor creaked.

He hadn't realized it was morning by now.

He stood with his heart in his throat, bewildered and ecstatic she came back. Would she apologize? Would she confess that she was happy with the mask?

Would that truly please him, or would he feel a stab that in the end, she did not prefer his true face…?

He held his breath as her lantern became visible.

His shoulders slumped when Anahid and Anahid alone entered.

Her eyes flickered momentarily taking in his unmasked state, but soon her own stoic mask was back on again.

However, he identified tense fire burning her blood in the tight way she held herself in.

She arched an eyebrow. "It appears our services are needed again," was all she said. The bitterness in her tone left him no doubt as to her meaning.

And his own heart sank even lower.

* * *

**A/N: Editing to add that I'm taking dancer Cleo de Merode as part of my inspiration for Meg's life and career at this point. She was in fact voted Miss Europe by a Berlin magazine.**


	51. Chapter 51

Meg pinched her cheeks in front of her vanity mirror, still clinging to the popular school-girl fancy that doing so gives one's cheeks the rosy kick that sometimes not even rouge can accomplish. She was dressed in a pink gown with cherry red trimming, with rubies in the same shape adorning her ears.

She looked over herself dispassionately. Pretty, she thought. But she needed to swallow the vaguely annoyed look on her face.

Here she was again, in the same faux-seductive position as before. When she joined the secret police, she envisioned herself scaling rooftops, hiding in train compartments, picking locks to safes. In other words, activities that had nothing at all do with her being a pretty young dancer in the Opera Populaire.

Yet here she was.

"His name is Hermes Verron," Darius had told the Girys and Erik in the office. "He's a socialist so liberal that even his fellow members of the French Workers' Party condemn him as too much of a radical."

Meg glanced at the photo Cedric placed on the table. She saw a fat fellow with a bushy beard and an amiable glint in his eye – a bit like pictures she'd seen of the aging Victor Hugo.

Marcus laughed. "Just our luck that the most radical socialist in Paris has one bourgeois failing: his love of the opera."

"Yes, that's where I've seen him!" Meg squinted her eyes, looking closely. "I believe I've seen him at gala parties and the like before."

"What's he done?" Madame Giry asked in a hollow voice from where she lingered close behind Meg. Erik, as usual, stood aloof and stony wrapped in his cloak in back.

"In a word: radicalism," Marcus shrugged.

As a matter of course, David stepped in to elaborate on Stephen Marcus's flippancy. "More specifically, Madame, he's been organizing talks and rallies amongst the working classes. Speaking against the virtues of the Third Republic and the like. He's a very persuasive man. Naturally, our government is displeased. Verron is currently calling for the release of certain radical political prisoners, and parliament fears a city-wide revolt."

Madame Giry snickered nastily. "What, and you see my daughter seducing his political fervor right out of him?" Her eyes blazed.

For once, Marcus offered no sarcastic rejoinder. Erik noted the drawn down corner of his mouth, the clear consternation in his brow.

For a moment their eyes met, and each recognized the flash of possessive worry in the other's face.

Darius shrugged in a rare moment of uncertainty. "It is difficult to say, Anahid. At present, we at least desire Miss Giry to make his friendship. Monsieur Verron is a loquacious man under any circumstance, and has not been bashful in praising Miss Giry's performances."

Meg fiddled awkwardly with her gloves. It seemed wrong, really, to toy with and deceive an admirer – but then again, that's just what she did with the Count, so it couldn't be _too_ wrong.

She cleared her throat. "I'll do what I can," she said uneasily.

"Good," Darius replied in a clipped but not unkind voice. "First, initiate contact at the charity ball next week."

"The charity ball?" Meg asked surprised. "But…foreign royals will be there! The king and queen of S -! The king of B -! A couple princes, a princess. Some Russian nobles, too, I think." Andre and Firmin were in an ecstasy of triumph ever since the Opera was accepted as venue for the event. So many royals in their opera house...this was more than the former scrap dealers ever dreamed of, particularly after what the opera house endured in the past few years. Hardly anyone within the opera's walls spoke of anything else in the weeks leading up to the event.

"What would a radical be doing there?"

"Being radical," Marcus said, and this time there was no flippancy to check. "Our sources tell us he's forged an invitation to gain admittance. He will undoubtedly hand out fliers and study the debauched royalist ways to better describe them to his followers." He gave Meg one of his cocky smiles. "Should be loads of fun for you to observe as well."

And so yes, here she was.

Meg smoothed her skirt in her dressing room one last time and then left for the ballroom.

It was a dazzling affair. Although it was not yet springtime, cherry blossoms and roses lined the staircase. Meg adored the spring, and would have loved nothing more than to run to each bunch of flowers and learn precisely their name and origin, but for the task at hand.

She started and squeaked when trumpets sounded, announcing this prince's entrance or that countess's. Meg stared starry-eyed at each royal that swept into the opera house – her home.

What a spectacle!

High above her she caught a flash of cape disappearing behind the ballroom's chandelier.

Her heart pounded warmly in relief.

Erik was nearby.

With that knowledge came that strange small ache she felt since that day in the lair when he showed her his new mask. They had not talked privately since. Still, at odd times during rehearsal or performances she could feel his presence unmistakably in the air around her. She'd glance hopefully at Box Five, but never saw anyone within.

She didn't know what to do or say. She was unused to feeling this way: as if she was guilty of some dreadful faux-paux. However, she was also unwilling to budge on her honest reaction.

She was sick of him hiding, of reinventing himself, she realized. She would not condone it.

Not even for him.

Steeling her strength, she glanced around the crowded ballroom, striving to look nonchalant as she scanned the room.

She caught sight of a familiar pair of blue-green eyes over another false mustache.

Stephen Marcus was the waiter once again, serving drinks to the various unthinking nobles lined against the wall. He nudged his head in the direction of the doorway.

Her eyes met Hermes Verron's. He stood unassuming yet watchful, and his face lit up happily when he recognized her eyes were on him.

She saw him shift in preparation to approach her. Meg swallowed her smile, pleased he was doing most of her work for her so far.

Then an obsequious cough to her right and a hand on her arm broke the moment.

Jolted, she turned around to face a tall, blade-thin man dressed as some sort of dignitary with medals all up and down his suit. He bowed in a tired bored manner. "Mlle. Giry, I am Secretary Mando, personal attendant to my most gracious King of B – . As you know, he is present tonight and would very much like the chance to make your acquaintance."

Meg was dumbstruck. "Um" –

But it was too late.

A hush ran through the crowd as they parted in bemusement. There marching toward the now furiously blushing Meg were two more similarly adorned attendants and in the middle a tall, bald older man with a gray wiry beard tangled down his chest. He was dressed immaculately in a bright red tunic also covered in medals, his plumed helmet tucked into his arm.

Here was the unofficially deposed King of B -.

When he reached her, he clicked his heels together formally and inclined his head. Meg automatically curtseyed.

She was meeting a king. Meg Giry, the ballet rat, was meeting a _king_.

When he lifted his head, she saw not the dignified countenance one associates with royalty, but the pink cheeks and glazed excited eyes of a child indulging in too much candy.

He shook her hand so violently she feared it would fall off. "Mam'selle, mam'selle! Such a pleasure, such a pleasure. I am an ardent fan of yours, truly." Another click of his heels, another incline of his head.

Meg was lost for words. Of all the emotions that might have claimed her at meeting someone at the very pinnacle of the social order, annoyance was the most prominent.

The King of B – was well known for his lecherous peccadillos. He'd shamed his queen and his people so dreadfully by his latest mistress, a fifteen-year-old prostitute from Germany, that parliament had essentially run him out of his own country. He tearfully left behind his little Bertha in her fashionable little mansion and decided to move on with the pretty girls Paris had to offer.

The moment he saw Meg onstage he audibly gasped.

He at last released her hand. The words tumbled out of his pink wet mouth with toddler-like frankness. "You are the prettiest girl I've met in Paris! I'm already dying of love for you! Tell me, little dear, how you'd like to live in a castle one day, eh? I could arrange it. You'd never need have another care in the world. You can have a pony, too! Little girls like you love ponies, yes? Oh, I'd make you so happy and your happiness would make _me_ happy!" He absently dabbed away some of his own spit from his wild beard with a handkerchief. He smile only widened and she saw his grotesquely small teeth gleam like tiny pearls. "What do you say, eh? Sweetheart? Why not join me after all this on a little carriage ride? I have a box of chocolates waiting for me that I'm sure you'd enjoy."

After dispensing his romantic monologue he leaned back happily, satisfied. The preliminaries were done with. All that waited now was her inevitable compliance.

Meg could not remember the last time she was so taken aback. There was something mortifyingly candid and guileless about the old pink king. The insinuating subtlety of the Count's innuendoes were completely missing here; this tall gray-pink mountain of a monarch had never any need of it. Until his exile, he'd never been said no to, never been seriously censured. Every one of his whims was indulged from babyhood up until his country could take no more of him. Therefore, he'd never outgrown the spoiled contented state of his childhood.

And now here he was waiting for Meg's answer. For the young dancer who'd never met a royal before, this was all far too much at once. She could sense the eyes of the crowd on her, noble and commoner alike, taking in the lewd king and the girl he was so obviously propositioning.

She saw Stephen watch on helplessly.

The pressing awkwardness of the situation turned to rage inside her. A hot retort bubbled to her lips when a voice rich with friendliness burst in on her.

"Ah! Miss Giry!" Hermes Verron was suddenly there between her and the king. He pumped her hand in his just as enthusiastically as the king had, but with more gentle regard. There was sympathy and understanding in his twinkling eyes. "There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you! Your mother demands your attention at once. There seems to be an emergency in the ballet chorus and she requires your input."

With crisp officiousness, he turned and bowed casually to the befuddled king. "Apologies, Your Majesty. Apologies."

The king opened his mouth once or twice like a drowning fish as his attendants glared and surprised murmurs arose from the crowd. However, it made no difference to Monsieur Verron. He quickly and expertly steered Meg away, and eventually the hobnobbing re-commenced as the king huffed helplessly behind them.

Once out of sight of the king and his men, Monsieur Verron dropped her hand and said with respectful gentleness, "I hope I was not too imprudent? From what I could gather, you needed a getaway." He winked kindly.

Meg's face broke into a true smile. "No, monsieur, you were very, very prudent. Thank you so much." She giggled. "Lord, did you see his face? I hope that doesn't spell ill for you, monsieur."

He waved the issue away. "Bah! I am used to making myself a nuisance to men such as him. Besides, he has no idea who I am really; in the morning, your managers will be told to dismiss that corpulent fellow who obviously is some sort of secretary to you. They will agree to profusely and apologize to the king. Then privately they will look befuddled to the other, wondering who on earth the king was referring to. Either way, your comfort is more important right now, mademoiselle."

She studied him sharply, trying to root out any falsehood. All she could see was forthright sympathy and good humor.

He was just as fat as his picture promised, and twice as jolly. His suit was rather ill-fitting. This would have reminded her sadly of Piangi, were it not for the fact that unlike the late tenor, there was nothing of the glamorized dandy to the plain outfit.

He finished off a strawberry scone and addressed her again. "Part of why I took it upon myself to extract you was that it seemed to me before the esteemed king foisted his attentions on you that you were coming my way. Is that so?"

"My, but you _are_ astute, Monsieur Verron!"

"Ah! So I was correct! You do know me! I am honored mademoiselle. I of course know you, as you are an absolute delight to watch onstage."

She thanked him genuinely. She knew deep down she should stay objective, but there was something so congenially frank and sincere about this unconventional figure. She wasn't really _used_ to people like this in her theatrical upbringing.

"Are you interested in politics," He asked without condescension. His look was so politely and earnestly inquiring that it brought back her awkward feelings of guilt.

Shifting a bit, then schooling her features into their most actorly form, she replied, "I'm trying to be. I'm rather an uneducated ninny. I want to learn more."

She beat herself fiercely with her fan, wondering why her cheeks burned after saying so.

His eyes lit up once more and he was reaching inside his bulky coat pocket. He pulled out a long green pamphlet.

He pushed it into her hands. "Here. A list of fine bullet points about the plight of the poor and disenfranchised and what you can do to help them. I am sure your schedule keeps you busy most nights, mademoiselle, but this Tuesday evening at nine o'clock I am holding a rally down at the docks. Well, rally is a bit of an exaggeration. More like a lecture with guest speakers, and we'll be fielding questions about laborer rights and the like. Do you think you could come?"

His light brown eyes were eager not with lust, not with flattery, but with fervor for the plain green pamphlet in her hands and for her reaction.

She swallowed drily. She did not dance Tuesday.

She stared at the pamphlet in her hand and wondered why she felt so curious holding it.

"Yes," she replied.

* * *

When finally all the dancing and smiling and curtseying was done, Meg was bone tired. Usually parties served to invigorate her; unlike Christine, who needed time to withdraw into herself after gatherings, Meg only felt more alive after. Many were the times after a big show or fete when Meg would enthusiastically babble on to Christine late into the night as her friend fell asleep on the Giry floor.

Tonight was different.

As she pulled off her shawl in her bedroom, she realized she didn't feel tired in a strictly physical sense. She looked back down at the pamphlet she still had clutched in her hand. She saw Hermes Verron's kind and enthusiastic face, honestly pleased at her interest.

Meg realized shocked that she was tired of herself, of the lies she was forced to tell.

She glanced at herself in the mirror. Beneath the light powder she wore she saw faint blue circles under her eyes.

She thought being a spy would feel…different. Like she was the heroine, like she was righting wrongs. Not…deceitful. Well, a little deceitful, but not in a bad way. Like when she deceived the Count.

Verron was no Count.

She flipped the pages of the pamphlet absently between her fingers.

_Nonsense_, she scolded herself. _He might be sweet, and he might mean well, but he's a threat to the government. He's stirring unrest, _she dutifully repeated to herself what Cedric and Darius had said.

She straightened and stared herself evenly in the eyes. _This is the right thing to do._

_Isn't it?_

She removed her earrings and changed into her dressing gown. If only she could be sure.

Her mother was too angry that their involvement with the police was not yet over for Meg to ask her advice. She knew she would not receive an unbiased answer.

If only, _if only she could be sure_.

_Erik._

He was worldly and brilliant. A bit of a pain and temperamental, but…he was Erik. The smartest man she knew – and who had her best interests at heart, she was sure.

She glanced at the vase of yellow roses by her window. He'd given them to her after her return from Sweden. They were mostly wilted now.

If only she could get a sign from him.

There was a knock on her door.

Anna their part-time maid, a stocky red-faced woman in her fifties, stood there with a note. "This was left for you, ma'am."

There was no sender's name. Tied to the envelope was a single white rose.

Meg accepted the letter greedily.

In her heart she saw his eyes, his long tapered fingers, and heard that sweet heartbreaking tenor –

She opened the note.

_Dearest dearest one, I'm so sorry we were interrupted! I love you I love you. I will come by the theater tomorrow with that box of chocolates I promised you! They're chocolate covered cherries which someone sweet like you will like very much I'm sure! Love and kisses!_

_King L – II of B –_

_P.S. Do you like champagne? I can get you the finest bottle from anywhere! Love love love and sleep well. I will be thinking of you every moment.  
_

Meg groaned and collapsed face first onto her bed.


	52. Chapter 52

Erik grimaced with annoyance and something electric that wasn't annoyance as Meg fussed about him, straightening his tie, buttoning his jacket. She would not look into his face. He had his new mask on, along with a false black mustache not dissimilar to Stephen Marcus's.

At last she patted his shoulders and examined him. "There!" She announced, nodding once. "We're ready."

Erik swallowed, trying not to dwell on the light lavender scent she wore, the tickle of her bright silken locks as they touched his chin as she'd fussed, her look of nervous satisfaction. He himself must focus, as this was the first visible role he would play in the French secret police's machinations.

When Meg told the police about her interaction with Verron at the ball, they'd immediately seized the opportunity presented by the invitation he'd extended to her. Even Madame Giry was pleased: if Meg could learn what she could merely from acting the mildly interested observer instead of the phony seductress, the happier the ballet mistress was.

However, due to new auditions for the ballet chorus, she was unable to act as her daughter's chaperone when Tuesday came. Since Verron had spies of his own that might be able to identify one of the police's agents when even in disguise, Erik was chosen for the task.

She kept looking away from his mask, he noted. He felt a pang.

He sucked in a breath as Meg took his arm as they stepped out of the Giry home into the night.

She smoothed her skirt self-consciously. The force convinced her to dress somberly for the occasion, so as not to give the impression she was a frivolous, fashion-obsessed thing who lacked the serious nature to take in Verron's words. She was dressed in a dark forest green gown with a high neck. She wore a thick black shawl around her shoulders and a quiet black bonnet that covered most of her bright curls in their strict bun.

Erik had never seen her so modestly attired, and damned himself for noticing anyway that the green shade of the gown gave her eyes a deeper, more mysteriously alluring shade.

So anxious Meg was to get going that when Erik looked down at his watch, he saw they had a half hour before the meeting was to start.

Relief crossed Meg's features. "Oh, good! Let us walk then. It's such a nice night."

She tucked her small gloved hand into his elbow.

And Erik felt a ridiculous and laughable surge of manly pride.

Neither broached the subject of their last unpleasant encounter. They each wanted to hang onto the lovely evening air and each other's presence.

Her fingers tapped quickly against his arm as they strolled down the boulevard.

"Our butler, Eric Dequenne," she suddenly said quickly.

Erik sighed. "Yes, yes, I know."

She spoke to an imaginary figure in front of her. "My mother is unavailable, so she sent Eric to act as my chaperone. He's fairly new to our family, but trustworthy and a firm believer in your cause, Monsieur Verron."

She turned eager eyes to Erik. "Convincing?"

"Not when you say it rapidly like preparing for an exam," Erik replied. "Just be natural, Meg."

Again her cheeks warmed as he used her given name once more. _He's no longer mad at me, I can tell. _

He continued. "I don't know what you're so nervous about. This is far less of a perilous task than throwing yourself into the arms of the Count."

Meg nibbled her lower lip. "I know, but…" It was she who sighed now. "Monsieur Verron is not like the Count. And…well…I'm just sort of on edge about _everything_ lately." Her tone darkened.

As did Erik's mood. He knew of what she spoke. That damnable oafish king.

Somehow the fact that he lacked the guile and subtlety of the average Count or debauched French nobleman made it more difficult for Meg to shake his attentions.

She'd politely but firmly turned down every one of his invitations: carriage rides, dinners, a weekend in Rouen.

Yet after every rehearsal, there he stood in the empty audience, clapping with an innocent wide grin peeking out from his wiry beard. After every performance there he stood outside her dressing room door, surrounded by his attendants, and stretched out a bouquet of roses to her. Cast members and audiences had long since taken notice, and word was beginning to spread.

Meg was usually the type of girl to take things in stride, but Erik could see she was reaching her limit. "I just don't know what to do," she said now, in obvious distress. Again her sincere eager eyes on him. "Tell me, what should I do?"

Erik was suddenly angry at himself, and angry at her mother. In their combined efforts to keep her safe and innocent, both had neglected ensuring she was educated in the arts of evasion. Her straightforward nature did not know how to reconcile the _king's _straightforward nature here.

All Erik could do now was place a hesitant delicate hand over hers tucked into his arm. "Stay strong, Meg. I will make sure no harm comes to you."

The small smile she gave him, and the way her eyes sparkled so warmly in the night, was more precious to him than any other thanks in the world.

They walked the rest of the way in companionable silence.

* * *

When they entered the tavern by the dock, Meg knew that her planned introductory speech about Erik was as of now unnecessary. The space was crammed so full of various laborers, scholars, and speakers, that she knew she'd probably not have a chance to speak with Verron until the end of the night – if even then.

She quailed at all the rough looking men around her. Was…was she the only woman in attendance?

She coughed and waved away thick plumes of smoke from cigars, craning her neck trying to find a suitable place for Erik and her to sit.

She felt him stiffen beside her.

It was a subtle move, but one that shamed her as she stared into his hooded eyes above that ridiculous mustache.

_Of course, he's the one nervous now! How long has it been since he was in the middle of such a large crowd as this? Over twenty years? He's so used to seclusion. And back before he was…crowds meant nothing good to him…._

A protective burst made her tighten her grip around his now faintly trembling elbow.

She looked around again more intently, eager to find them a place and get them a little bit out of the mayhem.

Luckily she spotted a couple of chairs by the aisle near the back. She'd have preferred seats closer to the platform so that Verron could see them, but she couldn't quibble about it now.

One more squeeze to Erik's elbow. "Come on," she said in a deliberately cheerful and careless tone of voice. "I think I've found something."

He let her lead him, feeling detached like he was floating above it all. Luckily Meg had no fear of crowds, having grown up amidst the mob-like chaos of the opera.

She heard him exhale out his tension once they sat. He visibly relaxed.

Not long after they'd settled in, the tavern owner took to the platform usually used for floorshows and called for quiet.

The speakers all sat in a row behind the tavern owner, a mix of rough bohemian types and pale awkward professors. At the very end was Verron. Gone was the enthusiastic jovial look of the ball. As each speaker took to the podium, his eyes never left his feet, one arm limp against his lap, the other akimbo. His face grew more and more somber, reflective.

At last it was his turn to take to the podium.

Up until that moment, Meg found it difficult to follow what the other radicals said. They spoke in lofty intellectual flourishes, citing legislative acts that Meg had never heard of and could scarcely comprehend. She clapped mechanically as the crowd around her cheered, the ballet girl feeling slow and out of place.

_I really am a slow-witted ninny_, she thought despairingly. _Just a little dancing doll who has no place here._

She occasionally stole a glance at Erik. His mismatched eyes were inscrutable in his patchwork face.

Meg turned her attention back to Verron.

He stood staring down silently at his notes, brow furrowed. He closed his eyes and breathed in.

The hall was more silent than ever.

He spoke.

"My friends, I left school at age nine to work in a factory to support my family. I am only self-educated; so I lack the verbal prowess of my associates here. I am inelegant and a bit of an oaf. Therefore, I can only speak from the heart. And I can only speak from the heart because I am not you. I do not walk in your shoes along the docks. I do not feel your pain, your frustration when the foreman tells you there is no work today. I do not feel the wave of shock when you walk home and a carriage carrying a drunk member of the elite splashes your last good pair of trousers with mud.

"But I once felt all of this. I am fortunate enough to have made a living writing about these feelings, but I remember hunger. I remember pain.

"It is easy when our stomachs are empty and there are sick children at home to forget there are others like us. Hell, we ignore entirely that there are others _not_ like us who suffer still more. But if we are to achieve equality, we must not forget these others. What good is equality if it only helps white men of a certain religion?

"What of our sisters and daughters and wives, and their struggles? Left to look after the children, without a say about what laws could affect their living situations – _your_ living situations? What of our Jewish brothers and sisters, despised by the government, hunted down and arrested? What of the black immigrant father turned away when there is certainly work he can do, of the uneducated girl who has only one career option available for her? Do they suffer less than you or I? 'Hath not a Jew eyes'? Hath not a black child, an immigrant, or a prostitute eyes and hearts and minds and mouths to feed?"

Meg shivered. She saw Christine's face, Cecile's face. Elodie alone in her flat with little Clara.

She was alarmed and disappointed that those around her were shifting impatiently, some grumbling under their breath.

Meg just leaned in closer.

Verron spoke simply and sincerely, looking around the audience as if he were gazing into a face of a trusted confidant. "Can we let this go on? I know of three Jewish political prisoners who did no more than peacefully – peacefully, I emphasize! – plead for government assistance in the press, as their shops and homes were subjects to vicious attacks.

"Just the other week, a black woman suffered injuries as she tried to stop vandals from breaking the windows of her little restaurant – and _she _was the one arrested, for disturbing the peace! With five children at home and their father gone on a merchant ship!"

Pain was in his eyes, true pain. An anger touched by compassion dwelt there as well, which Meg had never seen before.

He listed more examples, tying in policies in such a seamless way that Meg could easily follow, easily understand. Her heart pounded.

At the end he pleaded directly with those present. "I do not ask you to take it on yourselves to fix what is the government's job. I only ask you do what you can. You see a family of color, of Jewish origin walk down a street, and you hear others fling slurs or spit at their feet? Say something. Do something. Stand in their way and take the spit yourself. Give them your strength, your privilege – and yes, my friends, you are privileged in this regard. As long as your skin is white and your name Christian, you carry a magical privilege in this country that the Jewish prisoners and black mother will never know – not unless we band together and show parliament we are all one community of hard workers and fellow countrymen and women.

"To sit back and ignore, you are no better truly than the King of B -, whom I personally saw try to proposition a respectable young woman in public" – Meg flushed bright red – "—Or like any of the other careless and corrupt wretches who see fit to profit off our misery."

He took in a deep breath and cast one more penetrating look across the hall. "Be decent. Be loving. And stand _with_ each other, not against each other. Thank you. Good night."

Meg prepared to leap to her feet to clap but Erik's hand reached out and stalled her. She saw why.

She would have been the only one.

There was a smattering of applause, and there were groups of people who looked as genuinely affected as Meg. But it seemed to her there were more grumbling dissenters as people stood and made their way out.

Meg heard mixed mutterings of, "Old Verron talked sense until he had to bring up all that damn rot about the blacks and Jews," "if they're suffering so much, why don't they go back where they come from? Let us have some of their work," and "What are those damn Christ killers wailing about, the ghettos are gone."

Meg felt herself go hot and cold.

_Christine. Cecile._

"Hypocrites!" She hissed to Erik. "Did they not listen to _anything_ he said?"

Erik was remarkably passive. "No. They heard words and ideas, but did not connect them to anything greater."

He about lost his breath at the flame of resolution that lit up her features. Without a word, she dove toward the stage, where Verron was collecting his notes and shaking the hands of his colleagues.

"Monsieur! Monsieur Verron."

Again that happy, glad glance as he recognized her. He shook her hand vigorously. "Miss Giry! You made it! How splendid of you! You did not mind the reference I made to you in my speech, did you?"

"Oh, no. Heavens, no. A nuisance like that rotten old king deserves exposure."

"You are good, truly good. Tell me, was the evening enlightening for you?"

She nodded eagerly. "Yes, very!"

He noted the strained look on her face. "But?"

She wavered for a second, then couldn't help everything bubbling out. "It's all those people who refused to take in what you were saying, monsieur! So many dissatisfied people who are still so…so…bigoted! I guess I just don't know how you can go on like that with so little support."

His small smile was full of sad understanding. "Ah, but not everyone felt that way, did they? Such as yourself. And there were some others who seemed to listen and comprehend."

"Well, yes. But so few compared to" –

"I have long since learned never to make comparisons, except to ask myself, 'Verron, are there more people today – even one or two – who look speculative instead of dismissive than in the last meeting? Who look a little more open-minded than when they came in?"

His smile widened. "And each time, I have found the answer is yes."

* * *

The silence Erik and Meg walked back in was more charged this time. The night was very dark now, and Erik made sure to pull in her little hand closer to him. He could sense her mind whirling like a ship's propellers.

He couldn't help but chuckle. "Such a state you were in when you conversed with him I noticed you failed to introduce me. And you had so carefully prepared your speech."

She ignored his jest. "Erik, what do you make of it all?" Her eyes shot through him like arrows.

_Once upon a time, she would squeal with fright at the very thought of the opera ghost. Now she looks me straight in the eye and asks my opinion, and holds onto my elbow._

He shrugged. "What is there to make of it? Verron is a foolish man full of foolish dreams."

She was indignant. "How can you say that? You know what he says is true!"

"Yes, I do. And I also know it's no use. You saw the reactions. People can't look past their own misfortunes. They want none of anyone else's."

She shook her head stubbornly. "I don't agree."

His voice lowered. "Remember, mam'selle: he's the enemy."

Meg shivered. She'd almost forgotten her mission. In a weaker voice she asked, "But how can he be? He wants to help people, not hurt them."

Erik laughed harshly, making his thick mustache bob up and down. "Don't you know it doesn't matter, silly girl? All this political strife is for nothing anyway. Radicals and conservatives alike, it all ends in bloodshed and horror, no matter what either side promises."

Their shoes click-clacking along the empty city streets were all the noise either made for a space.

Then very quietly, Meg said, "I'm not so sure."

She felt his elbow tighten in her hand as he leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Then you better _become_ sure, little Meg, or you won't be able to do the work you must."

His eyes glowed enigmatically.

Meg swallowed. Her eyes stung as she stared hopeless down the dark road before her.


	53. Chapter 53

Madame Giry watched her daughter with growing concern. Tonight they sat in the drawing room, a rare evening off for the two. It was dim and rainy, and Meg watched the splatter on the window by her side as if mesmerized. Her needlework on her toe shoe lay forgotten in her lap.

Her mother was unused to seeing her daughter in such a pensive and lethargic mood.

Madame Giry knew, of course, the pressure Meg was under lately. The past three weeks she'd attended countless meetings at that cursed pub, hobnobbing with who knows what sort of rough laborers and sailors. Giry had accompanied her twice when she had the time, and while she sensed this Verron man was a learned and sincere fellow, the ballet mistress was far more concerned about keeping Meg away from the cruder sorts who seemed to come only for the free food.

Yet Meg never had eyes for any of them. Her attention was riveted to Verron on the stage, her hands fidgeting nervously at her sides as the man spoke.

Besides, the King of B – was proving a far more irksome and frustrating intrusion than any drunk barfly at a political meeting.

That must be what was troubling Meg now.

Trying to sound nonchalant as she shuffled the newspaper in her hands, Madame Giry asked, "Anymore visits from our royal friend today?"

"No," Meg replied in a listless voice. Giry did not miss the hostile look of poison in her daughter's eyes.

Meg's mood darkened at the mention of the king. She had learned more of him from Monsieur Verron, and her soul sickened at the very thought of the wretched old ruler. Before she'd been annoyed and distressed by his bothersome presence, but like most everyone who met him, she'd dismissed him as an overbearing but overall comical figure: harmless, idiotic.

But now….

Now she knew his indolent excesses led him to expand his country's influence to Africa, enslaving the tribes of C - and exploiting them in factories and plantations. Countless brutal executions and mutilations were committed on the natives in the king's name, his foremen carrying out a holocaust that was rarely spoken of outside the African continent. The king was clever enough, in the end, to bribe certain critics and politicians from advertising the truth. The ill-gotten fruits from this slave labor was how he financed his unofficial exile in style and comfort.

Were it not for a few missionaries bending the rules, and a handful of radical spies, Verron claimed even he and his associates would have little idea what was happening in the supposed free state of C –.

And if the full information was made public, would anyone here in Paris even really care? Once upon a time, Meg was sure the answer would be yes. She did not know anymore.

To think she once considered the Phantom of the Opera a monster. Now she was unwillingly courted by a true one.

She shivered and clutched her lace shawl close around her shoulders. She deliberately thrust the idiotic cruel face of the king from her mind, yet when she did so, another disturbing face arose in his place: Verron's. She saw him and the few laborers he was able to reach staring at him with hungry, hopeless eyes.

She also saw Erik, dismissive yet always there, by her side.

How to reconcile it all?

She at last addressed her mother. "Father was very political, wasn't he?"

Madame Giry blinked, always momentarily discomfited whenever Julien was mentioned. "Yes," she said without thinking. She frowned. "Why?"

Meg looked so pale, wan almost, but her eyes were blazing strongly. She leaned forward, her look penetrating. "You once told me he abandoned his old life not just for love, but because he thought it was the right thing to do."

Madame Giry didn't know why, but she was becoming strangely uncomfortable. "Meg, what's this all about?"

"Would you call him a radical?"

Giry swallowed.

She could lie.

She sensed unconsciously what telling the truth might do to Meg.

But….

Those pale eyes, unlike Julien's in color, but so much like his in their honesty, candidness, courage….

"Yes," she whispered.

And the mother secretly despaired as her daughter's lips tightened, her expression conflicted yet resolved at the same time.

* * *

The next day Meg strolled slowly down the catacombs of the opera house. Her face held the same grave, inscrutable expression as the night before.

She felt lost.

Every week she listened to him speak, and she heard others share their tales: mothers struggling to put food in their children's mouths, a construction worker disabled on the job and so dismissed, and victims of racial hate.

Every week she repeated it all like a parrot to the secret police.

The secret police: her friends.

The secret police: the men determined to bring down he devoted to helping the disenfranchised.

She shivered again.

She reached the lake. She stared into the black waters and did not recognize the miserable young woman staring back at her.

"_Looking for something?"_

She closed her eyes and for the first time in weeks smiled, though it was small and weak.

She turned around and Erik was there, taking her in with a sharp look of concern not dissimilar to the one her mother gave her the night before.

"Hello," she said simply.

She'd told herself she came down here to be alone, to think; but she knew now that all along she'd intended to see him.

He stood, as always, in the elegant posture of a trained ballroom dancer, his long cape wrapped around him like a bullfighter coiled and ready to strike. He wore his white half-mask.

She wished she could more clearly see his eyes in the darkness.

"Hello yourself," he answered. "You're troubled. Why?"

His words were direct, clipped: otherwise, she'd hear the worry in his voice. He was unsettled seeing his forthright, spirited little Meg brought down by some burden within.

_His little Meg_. When had he started thinking of her that way?

She inhaled deeply, considering her answer. She could tell he knew deep down what was tormenting her, that he sensed it each time he accompanied her to meetings, listened to her reveal all the next day to the police.

Yet she could not find the words to frame this coherently.

Instead, in a whisper-thin voice, she said, "I'm caught between doing the wrong thing for the right reasons, and the right think at the expense of…of…well, common sense, really."

Erik would always die a little inside at the sight of that slight head-tilt of hers.

He cleared his throat.

"Mam'selle, I know what you are referring to. I cannot endorse you doing said right thing, for you are correct: not only does common sense dictate otherwise, but you would be putting yourself in danger."

She eyed him closely. "Is that really so important?"

She gasped as his cold strong hands were suddenly digging into her arms. _"Yes, damn you. Your safety is more important than anything."_

She could very clearly see his eyes now: they were wide, wild, despairing. Obsessed. They gleamed searing blue and mournful brown in the twilight glow of the lake.

They both breathed heavily for several seconds.

Erik's throat was dry.

Had he…had he confessed everything to her in that one rash burst of passion?

Her eyes were full of soft wonder, but he couldn't tell if she understood….

At last she blinked. She cast her gaze down and away from him. She murmured, "I should go."

He stopped breathing for a moment. Then he gently released her.

He could say no more. Neither could she.

She turned from him and with the same slow steps as before, headed back to the surface.

* * *

His words stayed with her the rest of the night.

As she combed her hair for bed, she stared and stared at herself in the mirror.

She wouldn't presume…wouldn't dream…that he meant…that he meant _that._

Surely he didn't.

_Would it be so terrible if he did? Would it be so very unwelcome?_

She swallowed and dropped her brush, hurrying to her bed. She wouldn't let herself finish that particular train of thought.

Meg Giry was never the type of girl to dwell on such absurd flights of fancy. Opera ghosts and the like, certainly, but romantic intrigues involving herself? No.

Yet as she blew out her candle and lay down to sleep, she stared into the darkness and thought.

Erik did not want her to help Verron. He wanted her safe.

The idea warmed the very core of her.

And yet, the nagging realization –

Erik cared about her for who she was – whether romantically (certainly not, certainly not, banish the thought) or platonically.

Cared about _her. _For who she was.

And just who _was_ she?

There was not only Erik to consider: why did Christine love her, Cecile, Justine, Adele? Raoul?

Her mother?

Her mother –

Her mother once said Meg was much like Jules Giry, her father.

No, Julien Girard. The deserting ambassador.

The radical.

The hero.

Meg turned over.

If she was to stay true to herself, to the person the people in her life loved – if she was to stay true to her father's legacy – what other choice did she have?

The resolve from the night before returned to her. It steeled her for the morning.

* * *

Hermes Verron's office was a dingy little room in the mostly abandoned building where his party published their weekly periodical. He was sealing a series of letters when a soft knock on his door roused him.

He looked up and was pleasantly surprised to see Meg Giry standing there.

He stood with a smile on his face, ready to greet her, when her look stopped him.

The girl was deathly pale, her face empty of emotion save for the wildfire in her large eyes.

"My dear, sit down! You've had some sort of trouble?"

He solicitously took one of her little hands, leading her to the wicker chair in front of his small desk.

Yet she did not sit. She never took those staring, disconcerting eyes from him.

She waited a moment before speaking. An odd nervous clicking sound came deep from her throat before she spoke. "No trouble for me, monsieur. But you, you are about to be in a great deal of trouble. You must let me speak."

He studied her closely, quietly. Then he nodded his consent.

Meg felt nothing, heard nothing, saw nothing, but the friendly man before her. She had been plagued during her ride here with doubts, nightmares, images of the secret police, and of her mother. Of Erik.

Of the disappointment and terror she might reign down on them all.

Now, now, in this inelegant little room in the poorest part of Paris, looking into the fatherly fat face of Hermes Verron, Meg felt no doubt.

In a clear strong voice she said, "Monsieur, I have a confession to make to you. I have been spying on you for the French government. They know all that you have said at your recent meetings. But I am stopping all that here, this instant. Please. I want to help. Let me help."

She stood as prim and honest as a minister.

And Hermes Verron sat down heavily, all air seeming to suck right out of him.


	54. Chapter 54

How many times had Erik retreated to the opera's rooftop as he did this night, so full inside that not even in his lair could he contain his feelings? After all, like all living creatures, Erik craved fresh air…desperately as he tried to convince Christine that the dark closeness of the lair was all they needed….

Christine.

As he perched atop Apollo's Lyre in the moonlight, Erik realized with a dull thud in his heart that with each passing day, he was beginning to forget what she looked like.

He was too weary and heart-sick even to feel shame.

What instead buzzed and buzzed against his temples was Meg: Meg's hair, Meg's eyes, Meg's face. Meg's breathy little voice. Meg's heart.

He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply.

Since his conversation with her that day by the lake, he'd felt as though the inner turmoil in him had suddenly stilled. It was not the still of relief or sanity, but more like the unsettling quiet in the eye of a storm.

Her grave eyes haunted him more than ever.

He tried to focus his mind on the cool night air, the looming moon, the dazzling view of the city drenched in darkness, but he could not escape her: before so vibrant and girlish, now so conflicted and lost.

Nausea simmered in his stomach as the image of the foolish king floated before him, as Stephen Marcus taunted his imagination. As he contemplated what the demands of the police, her career, and her foolhardy suitors might do to her.

Meg Giry had nerves of steel, Erik knew by now. Despite her delicate appearance, she was no helpless damsel.

Why did her strength and resolution only make him more protective of her?

A movement down below caught his attention.

A small dark figure emerged from the opera house.

Erik frowned. It was close to three o'clock in the morning. Who would be entering or leaving the opera house at this time?

Gracefully he leapt to the largest gargoyle a level down to get a better look.

The figure was hurrying down the sidewalk now, head down, holding something bulky, like a package. A pageboy cap hid any features.

It looked like a young boy, but that gait...he'd know that gait anywhere...and he'd seen that outfit before, as well…

A shock of recognition, then fury.

Erik slunk quickly down to the pavement below, and began his pursuit.

* * *

The figure in the cap flipped up the jacket's collar, obscuring her face just in case a chance passerby –

But no, she was being foolish. The streets were empty at this hour.

Then why were her teeth chattering so violently as she rounded a dark corner down a fog-laden street?

_It is the cold, nothing more. Monsieur Verron told me there was nothing to fear, so I can't be afraid._

Meg repeated this to herself even as her head pounded and her heart raced.

_3:30 on the dot, he said. 3:30 on the dot._

The outfit she had worn that first day down to the lair was still where she'd left it on her return: behind that slat in her old bedroom closet.

She was becoming quite the master lock-pick now: first the lock to the opera's backdoor, now the one to her old flat (converted for the time being into another storage room. Still, the costume remained unmolested in its little nook).

So far, everything was going according to plan. She'd not woken up her mother leaving the house, and the opera had been empty. She'd wondered if Erik had been hovering nearby unseen as she went about her work, but she'd felt no presence.

Now she heard the clock strike three in the town square. She picked up her pace, though she was right on schedule.

_Nothing to fear. Nothing to fear._

Really, when you truly looked at the thing, compared to other tasks Verron might have given her this was quite simple: climb the wall outside the Cherroux Mansion where the political prisoners were being kept under house arrest. No police would be in back, so there would be ample time to hurl a rock through a window, run back across the courtyard, and climb back over the wall before the police could identify her as anything more than a young male rabble-rouser.

As they pursued her, Verron and his men would extract the prisoners. Meg reassuringly squeezed the rolled up cloak tucked under her arm. Once she reached an alleyway, she'd take off her cap and wrap herself in the cloak, a young woman again. No one would associate her with the rock-throwing boy.

Truly, truly simple.

Wasn't it?

There was no looking back now, either way. She'd confessed and asked for the chance to redeem herself, and Verron had shown her the way. She forced herself to forget how uneasy and resigned he looked when giving her this assignment, as if this were a last resort he'd rather keep her from.

She could forget that, and assure herself that all would be well soon. Somehow.

And so there was no hesitation, no split second halt as the wall she must scale first came into view. For if she allowed herself that split second of doubt, she would be lost.

She carefully placed her bundled cloak under a tree nearby, then jumped up to the nearest branch.

* * *

Erik followed several feet behind, but with her disguised figure always in his sights. He was as quiet and swift as the night breeze.

_The foolish girl, the foolish girl! What is she up to now? _He was perplexed, annoyed, and above all apprehensive of her safety. _Alone, at this time of night…and incognito…._

He remembered her distress over Verron, her strange listlessness. He quickened his pace.

Panic tightened his throat as he saw her hop from a tree branch to a neighboring wall. Uncaring about the commotion he might make, he raced toward her, but cursed aloud as she disappeared on the other side.

He panted, taking in the surroundings.

They were outside the old Cherroux Mansion, a not-so-secret government holding for upper-class prisoners.

He suspected now a little of what the damned mouse was up to.

He examined the tall and sturdy gate, testing the lock.

_Very well, mademoiselle. You will soon learn you are not the only one who can pick locks._

* * *

Meg was thankful her natural light-footedness kept her from making any noise as she landed on the grass inside the courtyard.

She shivered and paused now.

All she saw before her were yards and yards of cut green grass. The large house, dark and severe, seemed to her a mile away.

She swallowed.

_Nonsense. Your imagination is running away with you. Be calm._

Yet her hands would not stop shaking.

She still somehow found a reserve of strength to carry her nimbly across the vast lawn.

She stopped at a statue of some Greek goddess or another. She peeked out from behind it at the old stately mansion just ten or so feet beyond. None of the windows were lighted, and just as Verron had told her, she saw no one else about.

One more short sprint and she would be in perfect throwing distance.

All at once everything she'd deliberately pushed out rushed in.

_She?_ _She_ would do such a thing? She who cowed under her mother censoring glare, who shrieked at a rat scurrying across the floor, she would…_she _would….

The moment passed. The spark that inflamed her the night she descended the portcullis returned.

She opened her eyes and they glowed jade-gray in the dark.

But a rock, a rock! Where to find a rock?

Ah, here. A nicely sized one at the base of the statue.

What happened next was like a dream.

She was floating above it all as she raced to a spot a good foot in front of the window.

Closing her eyes she cried out in the most masculine voice she could muster, "Long live the revolution!"

She scarcely remembered throwing the stone, though she acknowledged watching it fly out of her hand and crash resoundingly through the large bay windows.

The startling and brutal sound was enough to jolt her, bring her back to earth.

A tense moment of shocked silence.

She'd done it. She'd…she'd _done it._

Mouth open like a surprised child's, she backed away before whirling around. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her. The crisp wet grass crunched beneath her feet, deafening to her in this silent night.

She heard the shrill whistle of the constable penetrate the air. She glanced behind her. Although she could detect his footsteps from the front of the house, he was not yet visible.

Smiling brazenly, she turned back around.

And cried out as a rough hand grabbed her.

"What are you doing, boy?"

She looked into the most terrifying face she'd ever seen: a tall stern policeman whose beat happened to be down this street tonight, and had heard her battle cry and noticed the gate ajar.

The moment he grabbed her, her cap fell away. Her long hair fell down her shoulders.

The man frowned. "A girl?"

The constable caught up, older than his fellow policeman, but other than his gray whiskers and slightly labored breathing showed no evidence of slowing down with age.

He looked Meg over quickly. "A girl, eh? Shameful." He squinted at her. "I know your face, mademoiselle. Been in trouble before?"

Meg could not speak. She opened her mouth once or twice, but no sound came out. Her eyes were as wide as a startled cat's as she looked from the constable to the watchman.

The watchman emitted a sound of recognition. "_I_ know you! Yes! You're that little dancer! Little What's-her-name, Meg" –

He could say no more as a masked dark spectral figure suddenly shot out from behind a nearby tree and knocked him out with another rock.

Before the constable had chance to react, besides uttering a startled "what", Erik did the same to him.

Meg stared numbly at the two unconscious bodies lying prone on the damp grass.

An owl hooting softly in the distance was all the sound now.

She at last stared into Erik's mismatched eyes, glaring and glaring at her in the moonlight.

"I" –

"Come on," he interrupted her roughly. He heard other feet coming from the front of the house, heard someone call out the name of what must be the unconscious constable. His hand was locked like steel around hers as he sped her toward the open gate.

* * *

As they beat their hasty retreat down the Parisian streets, zig-zagging through empty alley-ways to evade possible pursuers, Meg gasped out her tale.

"It's not Monsieur Verron's fault, truly it isn't! – He – he couldn't have known some random watchman would be – and at least the prisoners – you see, it was supposed to be rather simple – you have to admit, if it wasn't for that watchman, I could have scaled the wall in enough time – by the time the constable would have reached me I'd have been dressed like a girl again – no harm done – the secret police – they would have merely thought it some radical spy" –

He said nothing to her as he dragged her zooming down narrow alleys, silent as death. She felt like a stupid child, struggling to justify herself to her schoolmaster. Wouldn't he _say _something?

She did not stop to wonder how he found her. It seemed natural, really. Where else would the dark angel be, if not looking after her?

Although his grip on her throughout had been tight to the point of pain, she only knew for sure the depths of his fury by how ruthlessly he kicked open the opera doors, still unlocked from Meg's earlier criminal activity.

As the opera's prima ballerina, Meg was no stranger to strenuous exercise, but even she was losing stamina as Erik continued his lightning pace down the opera's corridors. He led them through a sliding panel behind one of the walls, and down the familiar steps to his domain.

"Erik – Please" –

But he would not speak to her.

He practically threw her into the boat.

She shivered with some unnamed fear as he doggedly refused to look at her. He rowed with violent strides. She thought she heard him muttering to himself in a vicious animal tone.

She swallowed hard and stared at the black waters.

She, too, now had no words.

The moment the boat docked at the bank, he jumped out of the boat, his cloak just missing the waters. With a hasty wave of his arm the portcullis raised.

He stood still at his lair's entrance, his back to her.

"Inside," he barked.

She almost jumped at his tone, his words shattering the ice between them.

_Well, at least he's speaking to me now, _she thought hysterically.

Her stubborn indignation made her lift her head high as with deliberate daintiness she hopped out of the boat and passed him into the lair, refusing to spare him a glance as he did her.

But what now?

Her answer was his hand on her arm, spinning her around to face him.

The fury and pain in his pale half face was unlike any she'd ever seen.

"How could you, you cursed girl? How could you?"

There was rage in his voice, but frantic heartbreak, as well. This combination shot straight through to her heart, forcing to the forefront the guilt she'd been avoiding throughout this whole enterprise.

The sudden lump in her throat paralyzed her, and she could only stare wordlessly at him.

He made himself ignore her beseeching silent gaze and continued berating her. "Stupidity, Meg. Plain, awful stupidity. What, you think you could have it both ways? Play along with the police, help the radicals, all with impunity? Take on the role of the double agent as easily as the White and Black Swan in Tchaikovsky's ballet?"

Fury heated her cheeks. "No, of course not! I hate duplicity! It's just that"—

"Just that _what_?"

Meg's eyes darted around, searching for some sort of justification. "Oh, I don't know!" She wrenched herself free of Erik's grasp, massaging her temples. "Erik, I don't know. I just couldn't go on as things were. But…but I daren't break ties with the secret police, or else we'll all be carted away!" She stamped her foot, biting her lip. "Oh, it's hopeless!"

"Hopeless is right, Meg," Erik said in a low voice. "I hadn't time to silence those officers for good. They will talk, Meg. One of them recognized you."

Meg's eyes widened as she turned to face him. In the blur of their escape, she'd…she'd forgotten that until now. "Oh, god," she whispered. "What have I done?"

There was such a look of pained misery and bewilderment about her that Erik's anger faded. He tried to hold onto a bit of his stern facade, but it was no use. The girl was close to tears.

And so he reached out a gentle gloved hand to stroke her cheek…her little cheek….

His voice was soft, grave. "Whatever comes, little Meg, you…you will not be alone." He took a swift breath. "_I_ will not desert you."

She gazed at him solemnly. He could not read her.

But he recognized with a sort of awe the slow resolve that entered her expression, the stony set of her jaw, the way her eyes narrowed.

Composure had returned to her. With it, a sense of purpose, a clear-headedness.

"We must leave Paris," she announced. "And Verron will help us."

At that name, Erik was about to protest, but Meg stopped him. "You know it is the only way now."

Erik studied her closely. Then he merely closed his eyes and nodded, once.

Paris. Leaving Paris.

They both let the gravity of the situation sink in. _Leaving Paris..._

She sighed and looked down at her boots, rubbing her arms. The resolve was still there as she lifted her head again. "Take me home, Erik. We'll fetch Mother and then we'll hurry to where I was going to meet Verron tonight, outside that tavern. We have to hurry."

So saying, she turned on her heel. Like the proud but beaten war general, she started heading out the lair with sure steps.

However, when they reached the boat, she turned around, and he could not breathe at her soft look.

Her hand light on his . "I…I never thanked you, Erik. For saving my life."

Those large eyes encompassing him, she stood on her toes and placed her slender arms around his neck, embracing him. _"Merci,"_ she whispered into the crook of his neck.

After a few still warm moments she released him and started turning around to the boat.

But he clutched her wrist and spun her around to him again.

She had only the briefest glance at his face, the briefest chance to recognize the fear he'd felt for her safety, his relief that she was here in front of him unharmed, the joy, the anger, the desire – before he crushed her lips to his.

Deep tremors ran through Meg's body. The pressure of their kiss knocked his mask askew so that the entire weight of his full distorted lips were on her, tasting her, claiming her, melding into her flesh.

She could scarcely think, scarcely breathe. All that existed were his cool lips and hot breath, the intensity of flesh on flesh.

She whimpered sleepily deep in her throat.

Then just as suddenly as the kiss began, he pushed himself away.

There was terror in his wide brown eye, the blue hidden in the shadows.

He exhaled heavily, and she could feel his hot breath on her as it had been just moments before….

"Forget it," he ordered in a strained voice. "Forget it, Meg."

"I" –

"_We shall never speak of it again." _

He trembled but for a moment, a broken, terrified shell of a man.

He swept past her onto the boat. He was as still as a statue of a gondolier from where he stood at the head of the boat, oar in hand.

He stared into the distance with the shocked expression of one who'd almost stepped off a cliff to his death.

Overwhelmed by him, by the night's events, Meg numbly complied and stepped into the boat.

What could they possibly say to one another?

And so it was another silent journey down the lake, and then on to the Giry house.

* * *

"_Mother…"_

Madame Giry was dreaming Meg was a child again, tugging at her mother's skirt to show off her new rag doll.

"_Mother…."_

A soft hand on her shoulder.

Giry's eyes flew open.

She squinted into the darkness. "Meg?"

The girl was standing in the shadows just above her. Giry couldn't make out her face.

"Mother, I have something to tell you…."


End file.
